To Match Wits
by didyoulikequestion10moony
Summary: The war isn't over, it has just taken a different form. It is difficult for Auror Granger to hunt down the Death Eaters and protect a Muggle man who salivates at the sight of danger. Eventual Sherlock x Hermione. Warning: Mentions of PTSD, Self-Harm.
1. Prologue

It had happened again. It was 2nd May 2004, an insignificant date for most, but not for Sherlock. Each time it happened, people questioned it, but gave up as they moved ahead to mundane tasks of their boring lives. Sherlock had been recording the events of this date every year since 2000 and there was an undeniable pattern- a change in fashion trends, an unusual display of fireworks, smiles of celebration. He couldn't decipher the cause. In his research of every cultural group residing in the country, he'd come up with absolutely no information to quell the mystery.

He sighed at the sight of a peaceful neighborhood and resigned to his armchair, closing his eyes to investigate the file in his head he had allowed for this specific date. The information he'd gathered since midnight flitted by for his scrutiny.

"...Potter didn't even attend," said a man in a large cloak, too warm for this weather.

"They say he got married in secret at the Burrow on-" another man in similar garments replied as Sherlock ran past in pursuit of a criminal.

Potter. It was one of the constants on all 02/05. He'd raked through his database for anyone named Potter, but none of them were relevant enough for consideration. He'd been refer to as 'the boy who lived' a few times, so he guessed that this Potter was young.

Another constant- cloaks. These peculiar behaviors were exhibited by people in those garments. Few dressed normally did too, but none of the cloaked ones seemed to fit in with society.

Must be a cult, he decided. It seemed quite obvious, and Sherlock felt shame course through him for not having arrived at the conclusion earlier. Mycroft smirked at him before being pushed back inside another room of Sherlock's mind palace. With a determined expression, the young man put on his overcoat and walked out of his flat with a determined look.

Once in a cab, he flipped his phone open and punched in a series of numbers to call Tony, a teenager who frequently hacked governments for nothing other than a boost for his ego. Whoever Harry Potter was definitely would have a mobile phone.

They'd narrowed down the long list of Harry Potters to just twelve. There were quite a number of children named Harry Potter, but with Potter as a middle name instead of last. The trend in naming children Harry Potter escalated dramatically in 1981, but only towards the end of the year and more recently in 1998. Must be a famous one, this Harry, he decided. Initially, he though he could be some pop star, but eliminated the thought because Tony, a fucking teenager, didn't seem to recognize him. It frustrated him to find so much data, but not much information.

His frown turned up into a subtle smirk when he spotted one of the Harrys. He was twenty four. It was very unusual. The address was fake. On collecting data about his phone signals from the past, he found a peculiar detail. The device couldn't be tracked at specific locations, seemed to disappear only to reappear later in the same spot in which it was last detected.

All the data reeled in his mind uselessly, and he could come up with no conclusion other than SPY. But, a spy wouldn't be famous. That would defeat the purpose. Deciding he wouldn't get anything much from being indoors, he left with his file- yes, a fucking file- to the spot where Harry Potter should be. It was the only case with a physical file. For some reason, Sherlock's past memories about this particular date has been hazy. Like they were wiped, but not completely. Mycroft once again reappeared in his mind to taunt his apparently weak memory and he ignored him once again.

Seven kilometers later, he was stood near a line of houses, right in front of a wall which is the exact geographical location he came for, according to his phone. It was another dead end. It was supposed to be a place beyond which he wouldn't be able to receive calls because of a jammer of sort. Clearly, he was wrong because John Watson was calling him like he instructed him to at this time and Tony just texted that he could still track his phone.

"Are you on that case again?" Came the annoyed voice of his roommate. He didn't reply. He didn't know why he ever bothered picking up. John was weirdly against him taking this case.

"You have a client here with a case that's at least a six on your crazy scale."

"I remember telling you quite clearly to refrain from disturbing me for anything less than an eight."

"Sherlock, we have no money and need to pay this thing called rent if we have to continue living here. Mrs. Hudson said she'll begin loo-"

John's voice drowned in the background when he heard the door to Number 13 open. He disconnected the call, pocketed his phone, and sent a dazzling smile in the old woman's way.

"Good evening, Ma'am. I'm looking for a Mister Harry Potter. Do you know where I could-"

Before Sherlock could complete his sentence, the woman suddenly fumed with anger, took a few steps ahead and slammed her walking stick against the ground. "I am so done with you cloaked idiots looking for that Harry Potter everyday. For the millionth time, I don't know that bastard and if I have to say it again, I swear to God!"

Nothing again, of course. Maybe he should stop following the Harry Potter lead and take up a different one. Privet Drive, Surrey, was reported to have high activity of cloaked people staring at a house swarmed by angry owls. He didn't pay it much attention last year, but it piqued his curiosity by occurring on the same date again.

Cloaked people should appear here as well, considering their presence in the 02/05 areas. Just like he thought, a man clad in a cloak appeared. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Few visible injuries of a violent nature. No visible bullet wound, though. Tortured, perhaps? Bald, but not due to age. Held a position of power, surely. Poised. so, he was from high society.

"Hello, sir. I'm looking for an old friend of mine- Harry. A mutual friend gave me this address," he said, pulling out a scrap of paper with the name of the street on it, but not the door number. He had torn a part of the paper to make it look like there was once a number there.

"Do you happen to know him?"

The man smiled at Sherlock and said, "Yes, of course. And you are?"

He was hiding something. He was good, this man. He could easily hide from ordinary people, but not him. His smile was fake, not far from one of those his brother sent to diplomatic rivals before he rewrote their lives. Sherlock dug deeper in his pocket to check whether his gun was where he kept it. Fear. He didn't have to check it twice, he knew it was there by the weight of his jacket, but his body didn't listen. He was scared, he realized.

"John," he said, opting for a plain name instead of his own memorable one. He almost never used false names, but this was was different in every way. His usual norms didn't apply. He had a file for fuck's sake!

"May I know why exactly you're looking for him? I could convey a message."

Sherlock's eyes go blank immediately and he felt a tingle at the back of his head which quickly spread all over his body. His eyes closed for a second and when he opened them, he was stood all alone in the road. In his hands was a file with newspaper clippings of the most bizarre cases ranging from mid 1997 until a few days ago.

There were wet footprints in front of him and their owner had walked towards him from nowhere and disappeared after halting in front of him. Why would anyone deliberately wet their shoes only to take 30 steps and take them off for the rest of their journey? One could argue that the owner could've gotten into a cab, but the angle didn't suggested otherwise.

The man was obviously obscenely rich, seeing that the prints matched none of those Sherlock had stored in his mind and he had a wide collection. Custom made shoes.

Sherlock's situation had the same intriguing quality of those on his file.

As he stood at the beginning of the footprint trail in an alley, he was unprepared for the scene that would play out in front of him. Two men, clad in tattered cloaks appeared out of thin air. Just like the owner of the footprints, he presumed. They smirked at each other at the sight of him.

"Look, Avery! A little snack before our feast," he cackled, lifting a carefully designed wooden stick as though it were a weapon. His comrade did the same.

Sherlock pulled out his gun in lightning speed and removed the safety before pointing it at the two men.

"And it's got a little toy. How adorable!" He cooed while his partner chuckled. Both tall with matching tattoos, wearing similar clothes, shoes from an unrecognizable source, wielding a mysterious weapon. Cult? Secret society? He had an extensive knowledge of both and the features matched none of the groups he knew.

Another figure appeared behind the men and lifted an identical weapon, yelling 'stupefy'. The man in the left froze immediately and fell with a thud, alerting the other who immediately turned back to fight the woman.

Fear was written all over his face, his arm displayed a slight tremor, but he took a stance to defend himself from the attacker.

"Filthy mudblood-"

"Silencio," She said, waving her weapon in a peculiar fashion, causing her opponent to go mute, his lips still moving. A jet of green light shot out of his stick and met an identical green light from the woman's stick.

Neither party seemed to make any progress in the bizarre duel, so Sherlock shot the man's ankle, giving her the slight edge she needed to force the man to the ground.

"Thank you for that," she said, smiling.

"Episkey," she whispered, her weapon removing the bullet and repairing the damage he'd caused with his gun.

"Are you okay?" She asked, but Sherlock remained too stunned to respond. She was in her early 20s, visiting friends by her casual attire, no cloaks like the other suspicious people in his file, recently broke up with her boyfriend, has a pet ginger cat-

She lifted the weapon she'd just used to attack and heal and did something that couldn't be classified under either.

"I'm sorry."


	2. Chapter 1

_I have taken some liberties with the storyline and changed some canon things from the original books and television series. As this is far back in time, Sherlock's dynamics with those around him are slightly different and they're all new to his life unlike the time we get to meet him on the show. Hermione has changed since we last saw her in the Deathly Hallows. In my version, Hermione is 24 years old and Sherlock is just a year younger. DI Lestrade is new to his job and younger and so is Molly Hooper. John is a surgical resident._

 **Chapter 1**

The Inspector gulped at the sight of ID card and let him in quickly. Sherlock wandered into the property, noting all relevant details that matched with the others it succeeded. He was told the victim was well known- a singer in a popular band. The Internet had nothing but his name plastered all over it, with fans of his work sharing words about the mark his music had left on the world. He didn't know why he took their words seriously and played a few songs of his on his way to the crime scene. They were all stereotypical songs about women and love. Repetitive and bland.

"How did you even get in here?" Asked Inspector Lestrade as he spotted him studying the building.

"Where is it?" He asked, ignoring the man's question.

"Second floor. Media room." The Inspector led the Consulting Detective upstairs and proceeded to reluctantly explain the case to him. Sherlock was glad someone was smart enough to understand that they needed him to pick up on clues they'd never notice. He was still hesitant at times, of course, but he protested less as time progressed and almost readily let him in his cases.

They finally stopped by a dead Henry Ancherton who looked like he was just sleeping. His eyes and mouth were wide open as though shocked. He didn't expect the intruder. There should've been a sign of break in, but if he knew anything about these killings, he was sure there wasn't any. One window was open, but it was too small for a person to fit into and the grass underneath looked undisturbed. It was impossible for one to get in through the window even if the murderer was capable of climbing two stories without the aid of any equipment.

"He probably knew the killer," said Lestrade as he stood awkwardly, awaiting the man's words.

Sherlock stood up straight with his hands behind his back. His deliberate choice of grey formal shirt and expensive Belstaff coat made his appear as though he were older than the 23 he actually was. His boyish face, however, betrayed the rest of his look. The corner of his lips quirked up and he sighed condescendingly. "No, he didn't."

"He let the killer in willingly. There are no signs of struggle." His eyes were focused intently on Sherlock, waiting for him to begin spouting observations punctuated with insults directed at him and his team.

"Look at his face, he was surprised. So surprised, he dropped his glass," he said as he took a few steps in the room and stopped by broken shards of glass. He knelt by it and took photographs with his phone and then used a small magnifying glass to study it. It looked pretty irregular.

"Then how do you suggest the killer entered?"

"Haven't the faintest. There's a new resident Dr. Hooper at St. Bart's. Have her examine the body." She was the only one there who let him watch her work even though he'd been nothing but unkind to her.

"We can't make specific requests," he protested.

"Yes, you can. She's smarter than the rest of the empty skulled creatures appointed there. If you want answers, do as I say." He then bent down and picked the shards of glass carefully and bagged them in one if the plastic evidence bags he carried with him in his coat. Lestrade protested that his boss would have his head if he knew some private eye took evidence from a crime crime scene, but Sherlock ignored him.

Sherlock begrudgingly walked to the nearest bus stop, annoyed that he couldn't take a cab like he preferred. He'd spent days on the mysterious murder cases, leaving him no time for cases he could solve and as a result, he had very little money at his disposal. He'd already set aside the rent amount as John had already made his contribution. He needed to give a fifty to one of his informants from his carefully guilty homeless network.

After a short trip on the bus, he met with Alana and handed her the fifty. Just as he'd expected, she'd been by the street last night when Ancherton was murdered. According to her, the victim had returned home in his car few minute after midnight but there was nobody with him. Everything was quiet, and suddenly the was an extremely bright green light pouring through every window of the house. It was so bright, she had to physically cover her eyes rather than just closing them. There was then a swooshing noise and then nothing.

It matched almost completely with Billy's account of the last murder in the case. Except, he reported seeing a man in a large coat through the window. Alana couldn't have seen the murderer as he killed Ancherton in a room that faced the backyard.

When he received information from St. Bart's about the corpse, he took another bus hoping that he'd be able to get some useful evidence from it.

Spells and curses flew left and right, all of them being deflected to the walls that took the hit instead of the witch they aimed to attack. The walls would hold up for another seven days before the incantations had to be reinforced. The only light in the room was the jets of light from the wands, creating shadows of the witches and wizards trying hard to take down their common opponent.

"Bombarda!" Cried a wizard, his wand pointed at the witch, denting the strong protective layer she'd created around herself.

"Good one, Evan!" She exclaimed as she casually deflected a rather angry looking spell. It seemed she'd done it too many times to count, in her life.

She looked at home, comfortable and unperturbed by the array of spells that were sent her way and she didn't even have to use her wand most of the time. Her movements were quite straightforward and simple. Her instincts were so good she didn't have to look up to know who'd fire what spell next.

Her next spell came unexpectedly with no words uttered, taking those around her by surprise. Non-verbal spells were a rarity, but that didn't mean she shouldn't prepare her students for them. She doubted they'd ever learn, but it didn't hurt to try. The better prepared they were, the easier it would be to get the Death Eaters.

"Not fair, 'Mione!" Exclaimed a familiar voice, nursing his wounded arm as he leaned on the curved walls.

"Neither are the Death Eaters, Dennis," she said, taking down all seven of them with just one spell. She flicked her wand at the door, opening it for the healers they had in the training halls just in case the situation got out of hand. They mostly had the opportunity to just patch up minor cuts and vanish bloodstains.

Once they were done, Hermione proceeded with her routine of giving feedback. The pupils lined up in front of her, hands joined behind their backs in accordance with an archaic rule that was still followed for some reason.

Hermione Granger mimicked their posture, but paced back and forth in front of them rather than staying put. Her wand was still in her grip, ready to attack at any time. Constant vigilance was drilled into her head, of course. "It seems most of you took my last review as a challenge when I asked if you could get any worse. I've seen no improvement in anyone's technique other than you, McGowan. You can leave," she said, stopping in front of him. He was the only one who managed to make any successful attack. The proud student stifled a victorious smile and stepped back and she began pacing once again, paying no notice to the departed man.

"You, Anders, still can't hold a wand properly. Make no progress next time and you're out of the program," she scolded, making him gulp. He followed his classmate out the door with no specific instruction from her. The thud that always followed when Anders closed the door was absent this time, prompting her to look up.

At the door was Harry, looking around the room in amusement at the way his friend had been training the apprentices and thanking Merlin that he didn't have to go through her to get his job.

"Kingsley wants to meet you," he said, all traces of the emotion vanishing from his face. Hermione deduced that it must be a matter of importance for Kingsley to summon her immediately instead of providing a later date to meet up with him.

She sighed and turned her attention back to her students and began a quick review rather than stretched out episode. They should know the mistakes they've made by now. If they didn't, he job was going to be more inconvenient that she would tolerate.

Hermione looked pointedly at one of them and said, "Poor incantations, better wand movements, just the opposite from the last time. Hope you don't fuck up both the next time." When he left, she continued, "You three, you've showed no improvements whatsoever but I'm grateful you haven't gotten worse. And _you_ should find a new career path." The trainee's face fell immediately, but she didn't heed him as she rushed to the large oak doors with her robes dramatically swishing behind her.

If she was right about the reason she was summoned, she was right to be angry. She wasn't a rule following good girl like the ministry had hoped she'd be. The war had changed nothing and having one Kingsley Shacklebolt to speak for her kind wasn't enough to create social reform.

They had murders coming out of their ears and their attempts at covering them up had started failing. No doubt they wanted the boy who lived and his friends to clean up their bloody hands and portray themselves to be innocent. She counted to fifty in her head to simmer her anger, she couldn't lose the influence she had in the ministry by lashing out unnecessarily.

"Those poor things! You could be kinder, you know?" Harry said as they passed by a pair of trainees consoling each other in the corridor.

"Well, I tried kind and they still insist on being useless," she sighed, pocketing her wand. "Besides, the murderous death eaters aren't going to be very kind when they have Aurors at the tip of their wands, I'm sure you're aware."

"Not going to interfere with your teaching," Harry resigned, raising his arms in mock surrender. They got into the lift and pressed the button to the first floor and proceeded to go down the building.

"It's the case, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"I read the muggle papers, Harry. The Daily Prophet may deem it too unimportant to report, but such deaths cause alarm in the outside world. It was a singer this time, they're definitely trying to send a message."

"Famous muggles?" His question was punctuated with a ding of the elevator, announcing they're reached their destination. A shy intern smiled at them nervously, but the pair of friends ignored him as they hurried to the Minister's office.

"Of course. It is aimed at creating fear of a higher magnitude. If actors, intellects, and government officials who have all the resources to afford bodyguards and expensive security systems cannot protect themselves, how are common people supposed to be at peace with their own safety? The message they want to send us is that even the best of muggles are too weak to escape them."

They came to a halt outside a door with 'Minister of Magic' engraved into the wood and filled with gold. Their current minister found it gaudy, but it wasn't up to him to make the decision to eliminate it for something much simpler. Not that he didn't try. The senior Aurors stood outside the door to protect the minister nodded at his former students and let them inside.

"Minister Shacklebolt," she said, nodding at the tired man sat behind his desk. The man who usually appeared majestic looked dejected. Despite her anger, Hermione found a bit of sympathy for him. It was quite tough to handle such responsibilities, especially after a war. It wasn't easy to hold his position when he had a bunch of old witches and wizards with their old ideals nagging him whenever he so much as smiled at a muggleborn. He could ask them fuck off as their support was needed for him to do anything of value for the people.

"Hermione, I've told you to call me Kingsley," he said, rising and gesturing the young Aurors to take their seats in front of him. The office had certainly undergone a great transformation in whom they let inside. Even representatives of the commoners were allowed to approach the Minister, these days.

Once they were all comfortably seated, he said, "I think you know why I've asked for the two of you to meet me, Harry, Hermione."

"Henry Ancherton?" Harry asked, referring to the most recent murder in the case he'd just discussed with Hermione of the way.

"Yes, and also Sherlock Holmes." This time, his eyes settled on the witch, his eyes insinuating he knew something.

Her heart sunk. Not another one. She'd read great things about him on the newspaper, about his deductions and his intellectual prowess. The country needed him. "Is he the most recent one, now? I'd been gone for three hours for training my students and they've taken down another innocent man?"

"No, no, no, no, Miss Granger. He is doing quite well, I'm sure you took care of his threat for him," he said calmly, but the change in his voice didn't go unnoticed by the witch. She also noticed the shift from her first name to her last. They were going to have the argument again.

"But for how long, Minister? He's clearly the new target and if we aren't careful, he'd be dead, too. I can't always accidentally find and save him, can I?" She said, referring to the incident just the day before yesterday when she saved him from two death eaters. She'd captured them, of course, but they had no useful information on the rest of their group.

"What are you talking about? Who's this Sherlock Holmes?" Harry asked, completely clueless about this person both his friend and mentor seemed to know.

"You realize he's a dangerous man, don't you?" Hermione almost flinched at his words.

"So, you suggest that we allow for his murder to take place? Just for our convenience?" She scrunched up her face in disgust, shifting in her chair to sit on the edge.

"He has come closer to discovering us, this time. We had to do it, you did the same and it wasn't just to Mister Holmes as I understand," he said with a hint of a smirk on his usually stoic face. Hermione quickly raised to her feet. How dare he?

"What I did was just once and it has been proven to have no adverse effects on the recipients when it's done only once. Now, Mister Holmes is luckily of superior intellect and bounces back from the attack on his mind each year, but how long are you planning to do this, minister? One more time and he'd be as good as dead." Her previous composure had threatened to vanish at his provocation, but she managed to keep it at bay.

"Take up the job, then," he said with a shrug. "You have so many suggestions on how we should do our jobs, so why don't you go ahead and do it instead?"

Harry's confusion had finally cleared up at the Minister's rude job offer. The ministry had been trying to recruit Hermione for jobs in the field. She'd withdrawn from fieldwork when her condition got worse, but of course wizards understood nothing about mental health. Muggles rarely ever did.

"You know why I can't, Minister Shack-"

His tone suddenly changed from friend who fought a war on her side to Minister of Magic whose words must be obeyed. "It is an order, Miss Granger. Your parents-"

She cut him off before he could complete his sentence and lose the remaining respect she had for him, "That's emotional blackmail, not an order. Deceiving doesn't work on me, sir." Harry couldn't fathom how Hermione was able say those words with such composure. They'd grown so much since Hogwarts, since the war.

"I presume I can make arrangements for you mission now?" He asked, calmer than before.

"Does my will even matter?" The man gulped and looked anywhere except Hermione's face.

His answer was clear in his silence.


	3. Chapter 2

_Thanks to the people who left reviews! It really means a lot._

 **Chapter 2**

Hermione Granger staggered across the marble floors, pushing past the witches and wizards who stood idly in the middle of the corridor with no regard to those who had to get to places. Her best set of robes swished behind her dramatically as she hurried to her destination, looking at the time on her watch every few seconds and muttering a curse as though the actions would somehow affect the progression of time.

She was slightly disappointed with herself when she reached her destination and Harry of all people had arrived before her. It was most certainly because her best friend had come completely unprepared while she had spent hours 'borrowing' files and analyzing the case from the Auror's Headquarters. While she had her own notes in her arms (because her fellow Aurors were too incompetent to write adequate reports of the cases), Harry had a poorly baked muffin. The corner of his lips had been recently wiped to get rid of the icing. It wasn't the first one of the day, then.

"Harry, hey!" She greeted breathlessly as though she just run a marathon.

"Wow, you're seventy seconds later. I was about to send Aurors to look for you," he joked, slouching against the glossy walls. Hermione rolled her eyes at him and snatched his half eaten muffin, earning a squeal from him. She paid it no attention, shoving her files in his arms.

Do not judge a book by its cover, reinstated the ugly muffin that almost earned a moan from her. It was good. Harry flipped through her pages of research, muffin long forgotten.

She lifted her wrist to know the time again and sighed when she realized that nobody had arrived yet except herself and Harry. Richard Granger had once told his daughter that if he'd had magic, he'd never be late for any appointment. Hermione snorted at the thought. Wizards had access to a crazy bus that took you places in minutes, brooms you could fly, fireplaces to transport you to other fireplaces, tele-fucking-portation, and portkeys for scheduled travels and still preferred to be late.

"You've basically planned the whole thing, Hermione."

"If I don't, people would come up with stupid plans of their own and being their subordinate, I'll have to execute them."

"Don't let Kingsley hear you say that," he whispered. They were used to whispering their conversations by now, constantly aware of eavesdropping ears that would report anything that they discussed.

"What could he possibly do? Fire me? I would be glad," she grumbled before vanishing the paper lining of the muffin that was currently being disintegrated into microscopic pieces.

The two friends waited for long at the corridor, discussing in length about the case in hand and the victims it had churned out at record speed. Curious glances were sent their way both from ministry workers like them and visitors. The general consensus among the wizarding public was that whenever part of whole of the "golden trio" was seen together, they were up to something that would save the world. It hindered their work sometimes, but Ron always managed to make light of the situation. No words were said, but both Harry and Hermione wished their friend was with them rather than managing the joke shop his older brother had co-founded before his death.

After what felt like hours of being gawked at like animals in a zoo, they were put out of their misery by the arrival of the Wizards they were to meet.

The conference hall could make the richest people gasp at it's appearance. Hermione's brain, with its extensive research on buildings, could identify the incorporation of different styles of architecture from different eras, different parts of the world, from both the muggle and magical world. The double height ceiling with clerestory windows above screamed South Indian, and the murals on the walls were Egyptian. The windows had a rather modern frame and handles, but the stain on the glass was Art Nouveau. There was a large portrait of Merlin, evidently from the 1600s if one bothered to notice the art style. Just opposite was a fucking Monalisa that looked exactly like the original. Hermione's eyes widened at the prospect that it could be the original. It wouldn't have taken much to duplicate the painting and loot the original from the muggle museum.

There was a large rectangular mahogany table at which the twelve people sat. It was, of course, mostly rich white pureblood members from the Wizengamot, leaving the young Aurors and the minister the odd ones of the group. Hermione didn't realize that the matter was serious enough to get them involved. This wasn't even part of their functions. She turned to Harry who sat at her left and he widened his eyes before looking around and bringing them back to her, showing that he was also shocked by the situation.

"Auror, I was informed you were working on the case of the murders of muggles by death eaters," the oldest man of the group acknowledged, his eyes resting on a confused Harry who'd never had a plan in his life. Hermione was pretty sure he didn't even know how to spell the word.

"That would be my partner here, actually," he said, turning to an unimpressed Hermione who looked normal to everyone but him. This wasn't the first time he'd seen her unimpressed- he'd been the recipient of it several times.

Behind him, Bones rolled her eyes at her colleague's behaviour. Hermione couldn't discern whether his dismissal of her was due to sexism or blood supremacy.

"The numbers have climbed up to seven in just two weeks' time. What do you plan on doing, Auror..." he trailed, struggling to recall her name that he'd never bothered to learn.

"Granger. Whoever our killers are-"

"Killers? You mean there's more than one?" He asked skeptically, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.

"Yes. The inspection of the victims' corpses revealed traces of different cores- Veela Hair, unicorn hair, even-"

"One wizard could have more than one wand," he punctuated his sentence with an exasperated sigh and narrowed his eyes at her. It was at that point that the Auror slightly lost her cool.

"Of which I'm perfectly aware, but my extensive knowledge of wandlore states that a wizard cannot be the owner of two wands if one of them has a core of Veela Hair. Do I have you permission to complete a sentence, sir?" She counted to ten in her head so that she would keep her trap shut instead of going off on the man. Her goal was to get the plan approved, not to call his intelligence into question. She focused her mind on the goal and away from her anger.

The man only nodded slightly and Hermione continued with her analysis of the common pattern found in all seven murders. The Wizengamot officials reduced the frequency of patronizing the witch and despite it not being the ideal level of patronization- which was zero- she continued with the case, even projecting a map of the country from her wand, spots of suspected Death Eater activity highlighting themselves as she spoke of them. She'd classified them into locations of high, moderate, and low activity, effectively giving them an idea about the potential victims.

"One of them is William Sherlock Scott Holmes or as he introduces himself- Sherlock Holmes. Born on 6th January 1981. Shares rent with a surgical intern training at St. Batholemew's. Has a degree in Chemistry- a muggle counterpart of Potions- which he doesn't use in seeking a job. He's something of a private investigator with no license. People who've lost hope in the law enforcement approach him with cases which he solves at a staggering speed. His roommate, the intern John Watson helps him not just in advertising Mr. Holmes by narrating his cases on his blog, but also accompanying him on said cases," concluded Hermione.

"On what grounds do you believe Mr. Holmes would be attacked next?"

"On the grounds that I myself saved him once from two Death Eaters on the anniversary of Riddle's demise," she deadpanned. Holmes was in danger not just because of his growing fame, but also because of his involvement in investigating the existence of the wizarding world. If she told them about his curiosity and how the Minister himself had set up wizards to erase his memory too many times for the sake of the Statute of Secrecy, they'd harm the man in their panicked state.

"And your plan?" He raised an eyebrow in question.

"I have identified, as I explained before, six potential victims. My plan requires a team of minimum five Aurors stationed around the six muggles. One of them could watch over both Rutherford and Jackson since they live in the same neighborhood, but it would be ideal if we could have an auror for each.

"Now, I have chosen these locations," she said before certain locations on the map lit up red.

Hermione made sure to speak as quick as her lips could move to match her mind. Every now and then, she threw in a couple of muggle words to make the situation seem more complicated than it actually was. The more confused she could render them, the easier it would be to get her plan through. They'd be to embarrassed to question her in the fear of appearing stupid and then she'd have complete control over this case.

Just as she'd expected, her plans were approved by the Wizengamot with a few questions they sent her way just to establish that they still had control.

In Baker Street, Sherlock was slouched on his chair as client after client poured in and out of his living room. He'd dismissed all of them before John reminded him of their empty wallets and a due rent cheque. He'd solved (if you could even call it that when the answers practically danced naked in front of him) a couple of cases quickly while grumbling about his roommate.

"Yes, he's cheating on you," he deadpanned after glancing at the couple for no longer than five seconds.

"But I didn't even ask-"

"I know what your question was," he rolled his eyes before turning to the man's boyfriend.

"Waterproof phone that you don't need for work. You're a teacher, obviously. Traces of chalk in your fingernails. You text him in the shower because you live with your boyfriend and don't want him to find out. Bags under your eyes. Staying up late for your affair. You might want to get tested before having sex with your boyfriend because syphilis is written all over you. Leave the fee with Dr. Watson and run before you bore me to actual death," he spat before he got off his seat and hurried to the kitchen. The two men quietly did as they were told and resumed their argument that they'd paused to consult the detective.

"Send the others away, John. We have enough for rent," he said before opening his refrigerator. His lips curled up to form the brightest smile at the sight of the eyeballs he'd managed to procure from the new pathologist at St. Bart's. Accompanying John to the hospital wasn't a disappointment after all.

The doctor spoke in the background, but his voice had been muted by the man who looked like it was Christmas and his presents were in the freezer in front of him.

Receiving no reply from his eccentric roommate, John followed him into the kitchen only to be stunned by the sight in front of him. It couldn't be... But it was, it clearly was.

"Is that- Sherlock! Is that a pair of eyes in our refrigerator?" He asked, shuffling closer to get a better look of the floating orbs in a glass container that held pineapple jam only last week.

"Wonderful deduction," he said, sarcasm dripping from his lips. "Although I'm disappointed by the time you took. You're a doctor after all." He stepped forward with his hands clasped behind him and tilted his head as he continued observing the foreign object.

"Why do you even have them? Whose are they?" John exclaimed with a sliver of curiosity that the detective noticed.

"Don't worry about that. I'm absolutely certain the owner is not looking for them," he sniggered. If John hadn't been as shocked by the body parts in his kitchen, he would've noticed a hint of his mischievous smil.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to throw us out," he sighed and walked away with resignation with the knowledge that he couldn't persuade Sherlock to throw away his specimen. He might have to move back into the poor excuse of an apartment he lived in before he discovered 221B through Mike.

"No, she needs money for a hip replacement surgery." His eyes lit up suddenly and he retrieved the container he'd been staring at from the fridge and walked off without shutting the door. Knowing clearly that he'd elicit no response from Sherlock, John walked back in to shut the door completely. Electricity bills were a pain.

"She told you that?" John blurted, offended that their landlady chose to share this information with Sherlock, a detective when she had a surgical intern for a tenant.

Sherlock replied, with his hands busying themselves opening the bottles he'd lined up on the table, "No, she didn't. I saw. If you used that expensive education of yours, you'd clearly see that she's in pain. Doesn't walk as much. Doesn't come upstairs to scold me. Has been visiting the doctor and trying a plethora of treatments that are clearly not working. The next thing any good doctor would recommend is surgery."

"Oh yeah. She hasn't been bringing us tea for the past few days."

"She brings us tea?" He asked, finally looking up from a Petri dish.

"Where did you think it came from?" He shook his head in frustration and received a shrug from him roommate in return.

"Your shift begins in twenty minutes," he said, dodging his question. Why was John so bothered by the fact that he didn't know where their tea came from? Sherlock wished people questioned things that mattered rather than researching the origins of beverages that were clearly not poisoned.

At this, John sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since he woke up and fetched his bag and coat before leaving his roommate to separate the layers of the eye with surgical tools.

This wasn't Sherlock's first time examining a human eyeball, of course. But, this was the first time he'd gotten a specific eyeball that he'd requested, thanks to Molly Hooper, the youngest pathologist who only needed a faux smile and a promise to bring them back to be coaxed into giving him parts of a body she was examining. She was smart in comparison to the idiots she worked with. She'd noticed the pattern in the eyes of all the seven corpses from his case and brought it to his attention. He was embarrassed for not noticing it before her, but then accepted his inadequacy and decided to keep her around.

He stored away his observations in the ever expanding room in his mind palace dedicated to the case. It could've been his focus on the experiment, his frustration at not reaching anywhere close to solving the case, or his general ignorance about certain things, but Sherlock should've noticed the footsteps of a stranger just below his flat. His unperturbed continuation with his experiment indicated that he hadn't.


	4. Chapter 3

_They finally meet! For the second time, but Sherlock doesn't know that. This was a bit difficult to write as it involves deductions and I'm not smart enough to write Sherlock's amazing brain. Tell me how you feel about the character!_

 **Chapter 3**

The two men and their laughter had come to a halt, leaving behind mischievous smiles that weren't far from those you could see on children who'd just pulled a prank. Once the door to 221 opened, Sherlock's lips dropped back into a grim line and his eyes displayed the turning of the cogs in his brain as he evaluated the new people in his building. John, however, was unsurprised by the contents of the room.

"Miss Granger," he said, diverting the woman's attention from her cardboard boxes. She forced a smile on her lips and greeted him back and they exchanged pleasantries like boring people did as social obligations required of them.

"We finally got someone for the basement, dear. I hope you don't mind," said Mrs. Hudson as she sipped some herbal tea that she claimed to help with her pain.

Four young people, around Sherlock's age, moved about with boxes packed and labelled like they were the work of his brother. The labels had perfect handwriting, as though they were measured while written. One could even mistake it for print. It surely belonged to the wild haired brunette who was still conversing with John.

Student. Running away from something. Self-harm, from the way she desperately pulled at her sleeves of inadequate length to cover her scars, but it could be abuse, considering the way she studied her environment for escape routes and potential harm from the two new members in the room. Ah, PTSD!

Too many boxes labelled 'Books' and from the difficulty it caused the tall ginger man to carry it, the labels were true. She probably owned more hardcovers than paperbacks.

The ink stains on her fingers weren't from the pen she was using on her checklist. The way she held it indicated that she used quills regularly. So did the texture of the ink. Fingers of a pianist. Plays the piano and has quill ink on her fingers? From high society or just a pretentious fool like his older brother. No, definitely not like his brother. Her jumper was cheap like something she got off the rack and her hair was too messy for her to belong to that category of people.

Not Scottish, but had just come back from Scotland as her shoes indicated. Certain words she said had a bit of an accent, indicating she'd lived in Scotland before but not for long.

Wearing someone else's watch. Her grandmother's probably as they stopped making the model long back. They clashed with her outfit, so it's sentiment. Dead grandma. She wasn't used to wearing the watch and the strap marks on her wrist showed she'd been wearing a different watch until recently.

"Condolences about your grandmother, Miss Granger," he said, stepping towards her. He didn't need a flatmate. Mrs. Hudson could increase their rent if she wanted to, but he'd have no new people around. He hated new people and this one was about to run away screaming.

She looked up at him with surprise in her previously dead eyes that now raked down his body. Her gaze was unlike that of the women he usually encountered. No, she wasn't attracted to him. She was examining him like he examined corpses in a crime scene. It lasted barely for a second before she shook her head and cleared her throat.

"Mr. Holmes, I assume. Dr. Watson warned me about you so that I don't run away screaming," she said, stretching a hand for a handshake. He took it in his and make quick observations. It was small yet strong in his. Her grip suggested she was accustomed to weilding weapons. The build of her arms indicated she was a swordswoman or a fencer, it was quite difficult to say when it was concealed by her sleeves.

Interesting.

"Sherlock, please," he said, mustering a smile that she returned easily. It wasn't forced this time, he noticed.

Just as she was about to speak, a man wearing old fashioned rounded glasses entered. "Hermione, there was no space on the shelf so we just left the last one on the bed. You could buy a new..." he stopped after noticing the men in the room. The ginger following him stopped as she bumped into her...husband? Husband. New rings, dreamy eyes. Newly married and extremely gross about it in public.

"Guys, this is Dr. John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes. They live in 221B," she said, pointing upstairs.

Girl ginger spoke up, "Ah, hello. I'm Ginny and this is Harry, my-"

"Husband," completed Sherlock. He smirked at how he successfully rendered her shocked and waited for the abuse that never came. He expected her to call him a weirdo, or at least a freak like Donnovan did. Maybe he'd have to step up his game to annoy her.

"Congratulations are in order," he said, lowering his eyes to look at Harry. "Not you, though," he said as he shifted them to Ginny, "You could've done better. Childhood _sweethearts_ , I presume. He surely popped the question because he was too scared you'd find someone in your league."

"Sherlock!" John scolded. It was all he did these days. The wife looked angry, just like they all did and he waited for a slap. Instead, they all left for the basement flat, leaving Hermione behind.

"It's going to take more than that to drive me out of this flat, Sherlock," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"I wasn't even trying, Ms. Granger. I wanted your stupid friends and your dull ex-boyfriend out of my sight. Their presence is annoying."

"Your guesses are surprisingly good for a morphine addict-"

"He's not a-" John began when Sherlock fumes and exclaimed, "I don't guess!"

John realized that neither of them paid him attention as they continued to stare each other down. They seemed to be in their own impenetrable bubble of arrogance, John thought.

"Former morphine addict. Still can't let go of the nicotine, I see." She likely saw the bumps left on his sleeves by the patch he wore. She folded her arms over her chest and the movement revealed a portion of her arm if only for a fraction of a second, but Sherlock noticed the fresh scar. So it was self-harm! It could be a combination of that and abuse. The two weren't mutually exclusive.

"Maybe you should try some. Your tormented mind and your arm you keep slashing would certainly welcome it." In place of pain, guilt, or embarrassment he'd observed in his usual subjects, there was amusement. That was new. None of them enjoyed it. Even John, the only person who chose to stick with him, was slightly shaken by his deductions of his best kept secrets. Maybe she enjoyed it because he was wrong? No, not possible. He was damn sure he had it right.

"Share your supply when your withdrawal symptoms get to you," she replied from behind her cool facade. Her harsh retaliation was a sign that she was affected by what he just said and was trying has to not let it show. It was a pathetic attempt.

For a moment, he was suspicious that she was sent by Mycroft and then dismissed the thought when even the Mycroft in his mind palace berated him for thinking he'd pick someone who looked so ordinary. Sherlock knew she wasn't, though. He wasn't his brother, he didn't brush off people just because they looked ordinary. He'd been right with John and he would be with this woman.

His reply was a lopsided smile that she returned before she suddenly turned it into a frown as though she'd realized something and then began apologizing. "I'm sorry if I crossed a line. I usually don't speak them out loud."

He scrunched his face at that. "Nonsense. Go ahead, tell me what you see," he encouraged. He wanted to know how accurate she could be.

"Sure?" She asked, raising an eyebrow and Sherlock almost laughed at her.

"Do I look unsure, Ms. Granger?" He mocked, keeping his eyes on hers yet circling her to show dominance. She didn't even flinch. Mischief flitted in her eyes before they deadpanned and he knew she was going to get to business.

"That could be a hickey on your neck, but there's no traces of more than one perfume or cologne on your person. So, you played the violin recently and you should be quite good if the years of practice is any indication. That in addition to your posture suggest you're a violinist. I suggest you do the Serratus Punches, or Y lifts for the pain," she said proudly, looking up at him for approval. Insecure, he decided. Why else would she need approval from him when she was absolutely right?

"Impeccable dental hygiene that could happen only when you start early. Associated with a dentist. Not a boyfriend or a friend. One of your parents is dentist and also took great care in reducing the size of your front teeth." Her lips sealed shut at that and she bit down on her bottom lip before letting it go. The action twisted his insides in an unfamiliar way. He took the feeling and stored it for future analysis.

"You don't eat or sleep as frequently as a regular person- you know how much and when you need them and act accordingly. The last thing you ingested was Shepherds pie and quite recently, I believe. You haven't slept in two days, at least."

"Forty two hours, Miss Granger. Close, but wrong," he said with satisfaction.

"That's a difference of just six-" she stopped her sentence when he took her right hand in his left. He noticed her go stiff for a fraction of a second before she returned to normal.

He ran his thumb over the ink marks, a smile gracing his lips as he confirmed his theory. He lifted her hand up to his face and took in a whiff of her. "You use quills on parchment more frequently that pen on paper. Strong preference for sheep skin, but it seems you also tolerate calf. Your fingers took a few seconds to adjust to pen and paper. Quill on parchment says you're rich, but jeans and jumper says you don't associate with it."

She scoffed, but continued," You're rude and condescending and you don't put any effort into controlling the behavior. You'd be kicked out of any normal job. Besides, they would bore an adrenaline junkie like you. Either self-employed or unemployed. You live in a good part of London and pay the rent so I'll eliminate the latter. What do you do?"

"Consulting detective. I invented the job," he said proudly. The few officers in Scotland Yard who entertained him for the sake of their cases always called him a PI, much to his chagrin.

"Of course," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Recently single. Broke up with boy ginger who's still in love with you," he punctuated with a scoff. From the look on her face, she wasn't privy to the fact. She doesn't bother to notice him while he's desperate for her to, like a puppy in need of attention.

"He's not-" she began to justify, but he cut off her weak defence with more deductions.

"Oh, come one! It's painfully obvious," he exclaimed and stepped back and looked at John and Mrs. Hudson who'd've surely noticed emotions. When he realized they hadn't, he threw his hands in the air dramatically. "He looks at you like a little boy looks at candy he can't have."

Before she could protest weakly, he used the advantage he had on her to bombard her with deductions, "You flinched when I touched you, immediately looked at the exit and your other hand reached for a gun in your pocket that you clearly don't have. You display so many symptoms. I recommend you have your PTSD treated."

Her trembling lips quickly curled upwards when she said, "Good, good. Some of them were spot on, but others were completely off track."

"Which one?" He demanded, turning back to her and getting uncomfortably close to her in the hopes that she'd divulge. Invading others' personal space usually made them spit out the truth.

" _One?_ More like several," she mocked confidently as she took a few steps back and away from him.

"No, no, no. Not possible-"

"Correct data, but incorrect inferences. I'm sure you can differentiate between the right and the wrong, Mister-I-invented-my-job," she challenged and sent a teasing smile his way before she turned in her place gracefully and walked to her new flat.

"She's just like you," remarked John as soon as the door of her apartment clicked shut behind her. Sherlock climbed the stairs to their apartment while John followed.

Sherlock scrunched his face at the unintelligent suggestion and scoffed, "Nowhere close to how good I am. She could only point out the most obvious facts about me. She's just above average."

"That's a compliment coming from you," said John and was dismissed with a wave of his hand. Sherlock took off his signature Belstaff and plopped on the couch unceremoniously and unconsciously assumed the position he always did while thinking. The facts he'd gathered just moments ago were being weighed against each other in his mind. Was she sent here deliberately or was it just a coincidence?

Mind palace John suggested that he shouldn't be arrogant in thinking he should be the only intelligent person around and any evidence stating otherwise was part of a large conspiracy and not mere coincidence. He directed his friend back into the room he'd assigned for John- related facts. Mycroft taunted that the universe was rarely lazy enough to produce coincidences. The facts he had on Hermione Granger, however, pointed to both sides.

This should be interesting.


	5. Chapter 4

I missed an update because I was busy with exams, but here's an extra-long chapter to make up for it!

 **Chapter 4**

Hermione and Harry found themselves all alone in her new apartment after Ginny and Ron had left on account of Quidditch practice and George's request for help on a new product's packaging.

"This one's good, Hermione!" He exclaimed, sending a colour changing charm at the microwave repeatedly and watched in amusement as the spell disappeared when it came into contact with the shield the witch had put up around all technology in the apartment. She had always hated that she couldn't make the best use of both muggle and magical devices to make her life easier.

"I didn't think there could ever be a spell to enable one to use muggle technology around magic, but a sleepless night and a bored mind later, here we are," she said as she glanced at the device that was heating their lunch. Magic hadn't interfered with the functioning of the device after all.

The apartment was a pain in the ass to clean. It was uninhabited for years and converting it into a hygienic place was difficult. Hermione thanked Harry several times for helping her out because she knew that he'd rather spend his day off at the Quidditch pitch watching his wife practice as he snacked on treacle tarts left over from last night's dinner at The Burrow. She hated that she couldn't go. They still welcomed her into their home happily, but she felt that it would be awkward with all that'd happened.

"I owe it to you for cleaning up Grimmauld place," he said as he made himself comfortable on the creaky second-hand sofa that now belonged to her. Every time an occupant inhaled or exhaled, the sofa cried in agony from the movement. He didn't seem to care as he dug into the meal while she fixed her plate in the kitchen.

"This doesn't completely clear that debt, though. That ghoul in the basement storeroom hugged me," she recalled with a shudder. Harry laughed at that, earning a glare from her. Harry and Ginny wanted to move into Grimmauld place once they'd decided to get married and when Molly volunteered to come over and clean, they'd lied to escape from her that Ron and Hermione were going to help instead. The former couple reluctantly agreed but only after promising to collect their debt over the years.

"You can't deny it was funny," he chuckled, reminiscing as though they were discussing the good old days when it had happened just seven months ago.

"For you," she deadpanned before plopping down on the single seater sofa and assuming her reading position with her back to one arm and her legs dangling over the other. This time, she had a full plate on her lap instead of a book.

"What the hell are we doing?"

"Over a decade too late for that question, isn't it?" This earned more laughter from the man. She liked making Harry laugh. It was usually caused by their humorous friend Ron, but the war had dampened his humor sense and the responsibility of bringing a smile to Harry's lips landed on the serious Hermione Granger. She was lucky that he laughed easier these days. The weight of the world was no longer on his shoulder alone. He focused more now on his job, his godson, friends, his Quidditch star wife, and making a baby with said wife.

"Right, right. I'm grateful you didn't ask yourself that when you set Snape on fire for me. But, I'm talking about this case. Do you have a plan?" He straightened himself out on the couch to assume a more serious position.

"One thing I've realized, Harry, is that elaborate plans never work out in the curious circumstances in which we always decide to put ourselves. And that holds true especially when it comes to someone like Mr. Holmes." Her observational skills weren't as sharp as she'd like them to be. After being forced to become an Auror by Kingsley's badgering, she trained herself in certain skills. The complete reliance on magic for detective work appalled her. She already had a good foundation is observation and picking out relevant data, so it was a skill she was able to acquire with much more ease than others.

"Right! That guy's scary. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was a legilimens. He was right about most things."

"From what I observed tailing him for the past week, he's better than that. His mistakes today in deducing us stems from his lack of knowledge about the existence of our world," she said, moving her food around on the plate with her spoon.

"Well, he thought that was your grandma's watch. That's not related to magic and he still got it wrong."

"It was my grandma's, Harry," she revealed. "And she _is_ dead, but she has been for the past fifteen years or so. She gave her watch to my mother which I've begun to wear only recently. So, taking into account the wear on the dial and the model, he guessed that it was quite old. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew the exact year this watch was released into the market."

"Who the hell knows that kind of shit!" Harry asked, fascinated. He seemed to know the most random pieces of information, but they weren't really random if you watched his work closely. He clearly knew the knowledge he had to acquire in order to make certain observations. It was so systematic and Hermione Granger was very impressed, which wasn't often.

"If we'd both been able to fit under your cloak, I would've taken you along to observe him but thankfully you're now big enough for your age for the first time in your life," she said before scraping off the last bits of food from her plat into her mouth. Together, the two of them placed their ceramic plates on the glass coffee table with a light clink.

"Wish we could've done that for fun, once. Sneak into to someplace or prank someone, not look for murderous death eaters and hide from Malfoy."

"I figured you and Ron would've sneaked into the kitchen at least once under that cloak."

"It's what we planned to do. It's what my dad did." There was a glint in her eyes now. "It was in Professor Lupin's diary. All four of them fit under the cloak when they were little. Sirius, according to him, refused to get ever under the cloak after he caught my parents snogging under it in the corridors of Hogwarts."

There was silence for a while as the two washed their plates in the dishwasher. Hermione was re-learning the muggle way of life in order to prevent suspicion from the man who seemed to understand everything from the minutest detail. She also thought it would come handy if she had any other projects in the muggle world in the future, or if she were to decide to leave behind magic completely. The thought had crossed her mind a few time, but she brushed it away after realizing how silly it was. But every now and then, when things got difficult, she would think about how peaceful it would be to become a professor at some university instead of chasing down criminals.

Two days later, Sherlock Holmes was slouched on his green chair and somehow managed to fully fit his tall frame in it. He looked like a sulking child who didn't get his way as he watched the web of pictures, sticky notes, and copies of various documents pinned in front of him. If one looked closely, a hint of a pout could be seen taking over his lips.

"The dad did it," he replied to John's question about an e-mail case.

When John hadn't begun typing the response, the detective huffed and lazily drawled out an explanation, "He had the motive and means. His medication contains nitroglycerin, which he threw into the victim's opaque water bottle which explains why he didn't notice it. Check it for traces of the substance and you have your murderer."

Sherlock wasn't entirely wrong about her, but he would admit that his margin for errors had drastically widened in Ms. Granger's case. She was from a wealthy family if compared to the commonwealth, but they weren't obscenely rich. Not just one of her parents was a dentist, but both. They'd disappeared under mysterious conditions over seven years ago, but no attention was brought to the case.

Suspicious.

They were recently declared dead once the seven-year period was crossed. Hence, the watch. It belonged to her mother and not her grandmother as Sherlock had presumed. She'd only now started wearing it as she _finally_ got through her stages of grief.

His condolences were technically right, but he was late by over a decade. No wonder she wasn't affected by his deductions. He opened weakly rather than delivering a hard-hitting truth that would've sent her running.

"If she walks in, she would report you to the police and I'm not sure I'll try to bail you out," scolded John as he walked in between Sherlock and his wall of crazy, blocking his view.

"There's something off with her, John," he said as he sat up and brought his palms together and over his lips in his usual posture reserved for deep thought.

"She's strange just because she wasn't taken aback by your brilliance!? Get over yourself and take these," he paused to wave his hand at Sherlock's case information, and continued, "off the wall."

"Her primary school teacher says she attacked her," he said in a monotone voice as if stating the day of the week.

"Primary school?" Bellowed John. "That's it. You've gone too far," he said before he took matters and pictures of their new neighbor in his own hands. John didn't even bother to put the thumbtacks in their box. Sherlock watched grimly as the subject's birth certificate was torn into pieces and her medical records crumpled in the surgeon's tiny hands.

He finally stepped up to gently push the angry man away from his case, asking, "How else am I supposed to gather data on her? What if she was a criminal living right under our noses and we don't find out until she murders someone?"

"Firstly," he said and he put his thumb finger up to begin a count, "she wears snowflake patterned socks and reads Jane Austen, obsessively. She isn't a murderer-"

"Murderers aren't a different species, John. They are allowed to indulge in literature and silly socks like the ordinary public."

"Secondly," stressed John looking at his friend as though he was a petulant child that needed disciplining, "if you want information on someone, do what a normal person would and talk to her."

Sherlock's lips straightened out as he registered his words. "Brilliant," he drawled.

"That sarcasm is unnecess-"

"No, no, no!" He waved his hands hurriedly before stopping to point a finger at John, "You're right! I should talk to her and get to know why she's _really_ here. Do you know how to bake, John?"

The doctor rubbed his fingers over his temple, frustrated that he had no clue as to how he'd curb his roommate's behavior. "Do I know how- I think I should check you for a concussion. You were quite bashed up last night after your time at the boxing ring." If Sherlock managed to drive away this tenant, Mrs. Hudson will be a difficult position which may end up with them having to pay more rent. He was barely scraping by already.

"It's the custom, isn't it?" he asked, his neck stretched up for him to look at the ceiling in deep thought that usually didn't involve biscuits. "Baking biscuits to infiltrate a neighbor's house and gather meaningless gossip about their affairs."

"Perhaps you should take Ms. Ingram's case-" started John, but was cut off by Sherlock who was typing away frantically on his phone.

"Boring! She was clearly lying. Her wounds were self-inflicted and she's accusing her black neighbor of attacking her when the man wasn't even at home at the time of the supposed assault. He was drinking with some acquaintances from work- I confirmed it with Wiggins. Now, do we have flour?" He asked, finally shifting his eyes back to John.

"No, you used it all up when you mixed it with cocaine for the case with the baker who-" John stopped when Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat and asked, "Where are you going?"

"Mrs. Hudson will have biscuits!" He declared with so much joy, a passerby might've thought they were talking about gold biscuits.

Sherlock Holmes, after a few minutes, stood facing his new neighbor's door with warm biscuits he'd heated and not baked, on a plate in his hands and a victorious grin on his lips. He heard footsteps on the wooden floorboards and the pattern suggested their owner had no idea of getting to the door immediately. She was hiding something. The thought only made him happier.

When the footsteps finally came closer, the door opened to reveal a Hermione who'd clearly just showered. Her face had just been cleared off of makeup, her curly hair was quite wet and she had changed into pajamas. Another mistake: the only thing she had to hide was her body since she'd just gotten out of the shower and was simply looking for her clothes in the boxes. Sherlock's smug smile straightened out into a perfect line.

What was wrong with him? He was so desperate for a case he began imagining mysteries around his new neighbor.

He offered her the plate, saying, "Biscuits. A proper welcome to Baker Street."

She closed the door briefly to disconnect the chain preventing it from opening completely and then opened it wider to let him in. She ran a finger over one of the biscuits and rolled her eyes.

"I didn't know it was customary in this street to greet new tenants with stolen baked goods."

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind," said Sherlock as he took in the contents of her living room. The furniture was second hand, of course. She was a postgraduate student. It was miraculous she could afford any furniture. But, it wasn't fishy when he considered the strong financial background of her parents. Or maybe it had something to do with emotions? Her parents had been gone for a long time now, she should get over it.

"Would you like some tea?" She asked, placing the plate on the coffee table in front of him before she picked up a slightly damp towel which she was using before he interrupted.

"Yes, but I doubt you'll give me any of your favorite Bai Hao Yin Zen. I'll take the," he paused to take in a whiff of air, "Darjeeling, please."

"Goodness, you can smell all that?" Her jaw dropped in surprise, doing nothing to help Sherlock's escalating ego.

"Wait, no- you can see the packaging in the kitchen from here." She shook her head, though not like people usually did when they were fed up with his antics. Sherlock smiled sheepishly at having been caught as he watched her retreat to the kitchen and begin preparing tea.

She had a rather large bookshelf with only three-quarters of it filled, the remaining was empty. So, he had bought that extra shelf like her friend suggested, after all. It even matched the other shelves she originally had. In fact, Sherlock would not have been able to say which one was the new one if it weren't for the arrangement of the books. They all looked perfectly identical. He'd chalk that up to mass production, but the shelves didn't seem to be so. They looked customized, like each of them was made with the utmost care to detail.

It was, once again, weird but nothing from which he could draw a conclusion.

A dark voice in his head reminded him that the deterioration in his skills was due to his sobriety. He pushed the toxic thoughts aside and told himself that he was a better detective when sober.

To distract his mind, he immersed himself in her bookshelf. She had a good variety including both fiction and nonfiction. The two were separated. He recognized only three of the fictional ones, but all of the nonfiction she possessed was quite familiar to him. The collection included criminology, psychology, anthropology, sociology, forensics, microbiology, biochemistry, and neurology. There was an introductory book on international taxation that was barely touched.

"So, what have you gathered so far about me?" She asked, forcing the man out of his thoughts. He hadn't even realized that she'd already made tea and even settled the tray by the stolen plate of stolen biscuits. She now stood by him, waiting for him to react to being caught going through her books.

He turned to face her, offended. She sighed and folded her arm over her chest. "I'm not going to believe that you care enough to welcome someone to the neighborhood. You're here to correct the mistakes in your deductions and gather better data about me from my flat."

"I'm actually here to offer condolences. Your parents are dead," he said genuinely before following her to the couch.

"They're not-" she protested, but stopped and exhaled. He'd quickly gleaned that she wasn't behind their deaths. But, he didn't completely rule her out as he'd been wrong about her in the past.

He made himself comfortable and watched her pour tea into the cups, her hands shaking slightly before she realized it steadied them. He then continued, "I know, but you have passed through the stages of grief and accepted that they are dead. Presumably due to the end of the seven-year period after which missing persons are officially declared dead. Hence the watch is on your person rather than in a box."

"You stalked me on the Internet. That's-"

"Not cheating," he defended quickly. "It's a good source of information at times. It doesn't invalidate my methods."

"-an invasion of privacy." _Right_. He'd forgotten about that.

An orange cat swaggered into the living room and stopped by her. It meowed in a manner that sounded almost angry and she responded by feeding him a biscuit. Once done with the treat, it hopped on to the couch and crawled into her lap, all while eyeing Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows at the creature, challenging it.

Old cat. Old enough to be dead, in fact. So, childhood pet.

"He doesn't like new people," she explained, petting it. He looked up at her and decided to get to business.

"Your case is rather curious, Ms. Granger. I could help," he said, taking a sip of his tea. It was quite good, he realized. He hadn't been focused on the taste before as he was more concerned that she may not accept his input. Now that he knew, he wasn't too anxious.

"There's nothing to do anymore! I've had loads of detectives from Scotland Yard take an interest in my parents' disappearance, but none of them could find anything."

"I am not Scotland Yard."

"Yes, I know. You're better. But, I don't think you'd be able to find anything after all this time."

"Try me." He smiled as he took one last sip of her tea. He had her, he knew it!

"Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please," he reminded. It was important that she felt close to him for her to let him in the case.

"Right. It took me a long time to come to terms with what happened. After what I'm sure was a thorough investigation, nothing turned up to suggest anything. I held on to hope for a long time and I don't think it'll be good for me to resurrect my hope only for it to be shattered all over again."

"I don't create false hopes, Ms. Granger. I'll go through the case files and talk to you only if I find something meaningful." He was lying, of course. He wouldn't be wasting his time with her if he hadn't already found something worthy.

"See, now I'm going to hope you'd talk to me each time I see you," she said with a sad smile, fingering the handle of her teacup that sat on the coffee table. Sherlock rested his cup by hers before rising from his chair and shoving his hands inside his pockets.

"Most people don't," he said as he considered her from the new vantage point he had of her.

"Don't what?"

"Hope that I'd talk to them."

"You know I'm not most people."


	6. Chapter 5

_Here's the next chapter! I hope I did the interaction between the characters right. Please leave behind a review!_

 **Chapter 5**

She had missed this. It had been years since she sat in a classroom and let new information flood her senses. She missed the way her brain made new connections and stored essential information and prided herself when an exceptional person in a field theorized something she'd casually thought of before.

Her fingers had quickly gotten used to pens and she'd written with just as much ease as she did with a quill and ink. They were more practical and she saved time in exams as she didn't have to dip the instrument in a pot of ink frequently.

She'd missed her usual crowd, of course, but learning was more important than having familiar faces in a classroom. It was also felt different to learn muggle subjects. The last time she learned about the muggle world in an academic setting was when she took up Muggle Studies but dropped it because of her heavy course load. And because she already knew more than what they taught.

Her professor walked back and forth in the room and her eyes gleamed as she explained about made references to some basics- the stages of psychosexual development. Freud wasn't Hermione's favorite, but she listened anyway. When she heard the professor say something contrary to her beliefs, however, she put her hand up and spoke when she was gestured to do so.

"With all due respect, professor, I think his research wasn't completely right as he based it fully on male subjects."

Suddenly, her fellow classmates disappeared from the room, leaving behind only the two women with varying opinions. Hermione didn't pay much attention to it for reasons she couldn't discern. She should be bothered, but she wasn't. Her argument seemed more important, so she looked back at her educator turned opponent. The professor's eyes turned red and her nose into slits. Her neck elongated and her body narrowed and her clothes turned into snakeskin. When she began speaking, her voice came out in hisses rather than words. She'd heard it before- parseltongue.

It kept getting louder the closer it slithered to her. The room suddenly felt infinite in size as she stumbled backward in response to the large snake. She turned around only when she was met with two pairs of familiar arms that pulled her into a comforting embrace. She looked up to discover her parents looking at her as empty as they did that day.

"Please, Hermione," they deadpanned. No, no, something was wrong. They weren't supposed to be here and neither was Nagini, but they were. Her heartbeat quickened and she began sweating profusely. She felt like she was going to die, just like she did during her last encounter with the monster.

"How? You're not- NO!" She struggled to form words. Her brain had shut down from the barrage of illogical stimuli that flooded her senses. She could only wail in agony as the reptile swallowed the two people she loved the most. Her hands went up to her ears to keep from hearing the victims' cries and the incessant beeping that threatened to burst her eardrum. And then she fell down the stairs, the impact sending shockwaves through her body. Something trickled down her forehead and she touched it and brought it to her vision to find that the liquid was blood.

The beeping noise was still strong, but she was in an entirely different location.

There was a fuzzy grey carpet beneath her and to her left was the wooden legs of a cot which she quickly realized was hers. The words from the blog on mental health came to her mind and she told herself that she was okay, was in London and not Scotland, the war was over, her loved ones were no longer in danger, and everything will be okay. It took time, but that coupled with the breathing techniques she learned from the same blog helped her calm down.

Once stable, she slowly gathered herself off the floor and picked up her new phone to switch it off and sighed when the alarm stopped and gave way to the sound of the busy street and an angry landlady.

Hermione retrieved her wand from her bedside table and flicked it at the bed to rearrange the mess she'd made by wriggling and thrashing about.

Her room was completely set up, at least the original one. The extensions she'd made to the bedroom to create an office was sealed from muggle eyes and a complete mess of files, maps, and diagrams. Working in a muggle area was easier than working in a magical one. She could create a whole new room to hide from her nosy flatmate upstairs and he'd never find out. The room was also heavily warded by spells of her own creation, making it near impossible for death eaters to crack.

She liked her new flat so far. It wasn't as big as the one she had with Ron, but it was enough. It was awkward in their flat, the last few days she lived there because they'd already broken up but had to keep living together for the sake of their magically binding lease. So, she enjoyed the peace and privacy that this quaint one at Bake Street offered. The peace, of course, was being chipped away by Sherlock Holmes who was still arguing with Mrs. Hudson about ruining her wall when he set off a miniature version of an explosive device for a case he'd been working on.

She conjured a chair for herself by her fireplace and picked up the Daily Prophet that'd been left there by Harry who was essentially her handler. Others in her life had no idea she was on a case. She was a witch who'd gone crazy from the war and fled their world to live life as a muggle, according to Witch Weekly. To her friends, she was going to graduate in Psychology to create a mental health care system lacking in their world that desperately needed one.

It wasn't completely a lie. She was doing her post graduate in psychology, not her undergrad, but it was all the same for her friends who had virtually no clue about muggle education. Arthur had questions as usual, of course, but she distracted him from them like she used to distract Teddy. The only difference was that she employed Google with Arthur rather than a set of glittery, colorful keys that jingled in the tune of nursery rhymes when played with.

She fixed herself and Crookshanks some breakfast once she was done updating herself with news concerning the rebuilding of Hogwarts, the new members appointed to the cabinet, and a niffler who was left a large sum of inheritance by his batty old human. Once he woke up, he'd sensed her emotions and tried his best to lift her spirits. If he'd been younger, her nightmare would've woken him up.

Hermione then begrudgingly left after meeting her landlady. Once she reached the nearest apparition point, she recalled her destination, used her determination and deliberation to transport herself to the location. She turned on the spot and felt the familiar sensations of apparition on her body- everything turned pitch black, her environment pushed and pulled at her body like it was playdoh in the hands of a child and finally, she was dropped on her feet in another alley, one she was familiar with.

She'd have disapparated from home, but she knew if Sherlock's fascination with her mysterious aura that kept him focused on her activities. He might even see her as a suspect in the new case he'd picked up from her.

She could see the Matthews' home from a distance just by her childhood home. They were the ones who'd gone to Scotland Yard with their suspicions about the Grangers missing from their home. Immediately after the war, she'd been dragged into the investigation by the police and was even considered a suspect. They thought she'd murdered them to inherit wealth quicker than she would if they'd died. It didn't help that she'd recently turned eighteen and disappeared into a fucking forest for a long time.

She scoffed at the memory. How luxurious it must be to exist in a world so mundane the motivation for murder could only be wealth. It was refreshing to be accused of that when she'd been accused of worse in her world- taking away the jobs of reals witches and wizards, taking over the ministry, seducing the boy who lived, for example. Murder was cooler if she forgot the inheritance aspect. She'd even heard in passing that she had some bizarre sexual obsession with elves, which according to them, explained her fervent actions to free them.

The house had been wiped off of all traces of the existence of the Grangers, herself included. She was proud of her perfectly executed act. Neither her parents nor the cops became suspicious. Mum and Dad didn't know they were Mum and Dad. Cops didn't know how or why they'd left. The investigation stretched for months before they all gave up. None of them cared about the lack of their only daughter's pictures in the home, her books or certificates or clothes. Nothing. They ate up her boarding school story- McGonagall knew a Squib who faked records to make it look like she'd attended his school for gifted children in Scotland.

They were easy to deceive, but Sherlock was an observant man. He'd notice inconsistencies and ask questions. He'd take apart her life and she'd come crashing down. So, here she was again to make sure there was nothing to gain Sherlock's interest.

It was... _weird_ , coming back. The neighborhood had looked the same, but when she took a proper look, she could spot little differences from when she was last here. Once the investigation was completed, she put some of her parents' belongings that they'd left behind in her bag and disapparated from inside to an alley close to The Burrow.

Some of them had moved, she noticed. There was a dog outside Henry's home. Henry couldn't have a dog because he was allergic to it. And the lawn had been neatly maintained, which Henry's parents never bothered to do.

"Hermione!" Someone exclaimed and her hand instinctively went to where her wand would be if she'd word a robe. She breathed out in relief when she realized the owner of the voice was just Mrs. Matthew.

"Hello- hi I didn't expect to see you here," she said scratching the back of her neck. She took a few steps towards the old neighbor as she spoke, "I thought you'd moved to Wales for work."

"Yes, dear I did but I missed home too much."

"Ah," she said and awkwardly bounced on her feet as she realized they had nothing in common to continue the conversation.

"What do you do these days, then?" She asked enthusiastically as she put down her watering can. Hermione screamed internally for being caught in a useless conversation. The woman's eyes twinkled at the fodder for gossip. She should've disapparated from the alley and into the house, in hindsight. Hindsight was a real bitch.

"I'm in uni, actually." She plastered a fake smile to keep herself from punching the woman who was now pulling chairs for them to sit down and talk about her life in length. She stopped to think and spoke again with a horrible idea.

"You should come in, Hermione. I baked some biscuits last night. Remember, I used to bring them for you when you were young before you went away to boarding school. I'll put the kettle on," she said, waddling as she beckoned her in.

"The weather is quite pleasant, don't you think? We should have tea here," Hermione offered, deciding that she'd apparate in plain sight if she had to, laws about apparating in muggle neighborhoods only from alleyways be damned.

"That's good too, dear. I'll be back in a few," she said before waddling hurriedly inside. Hermione stepped off the woman garden and made a move towards her old home when a car parked beside her. She tried to ignore it, but the car began moving right along with her. It didn't fit the usual description of creepy men who found it amusing to harass women going about their day, but again, it wasn't like men with expensive cars weren't sexist.

She thanked her past self for gaining the ability to do some magic with no wand or incantations. In her mind, she whispered 'Revelio' and visualized the magic when the tinted glass was forced to reveal the passengers. A man was at the driver's seat and a woman was seated at the back and she made contact with her eyes and smirked knowingly. She leaned slightly and opened a door.

"Wilhelmia Grant?" She asked, surprised the see the witch in a car holding a mobile phone. She was a half-blood and it was no surprise that she'd adopted some muggle devices into her life, but it wasn't something Hermione foresaw.

"Get in. There's someone you should meet."

It was the worst decision she'd ever made, Hermione decided, as she stood in an abandoned warehouse that contained nothing (that she could see) except an out-of-place teak chair. She heard footsteps at a distance and immediately retrieved her wand from inside her jacket. A quick scan of her surrounding revealed nothing threatening. Maybe she was just being paranoid. It was pathetic, said a voice in her head. She wasn't pathetic to be paranoid, she rationalized. Anyone who was convinced to get into a car with an old schoolmate who then dropped them off in a location that looked like the perfect in which to be murdered should be paranoid.

A door opened and gave way to light and apparently the past if the man's attire was any sign. He wore an ink blue three-piece suit and a maroon tie. A chair was threaded through a buttonhole, indicating the presence of a fucking pocket watch in his waistcoat pocket. He even had a pocket square that matched his tie. His tiepin was a mere accessory as his tie was safely under his waistcoat. In his hand was an umbrella whose handle resembled that of a swordstick. The way he moved suggested that the umbrella was part of his outfit without which he probably felt incomplete. Who the hell carried a swordstick in this day and age for defense? The look would be complete if he had on a monocle and a top hat or a bowler hat.

"You look confused, Miss Granger," he said, planting the tip of his umbrella firmly on the ground and put his body weight on it.

"Join me, won't you? You've traveled through time. It must be confusing to see wristwatches," she channeled her inner Harry and lifted her wrist to show off her watch. The man smiled. It was neither pleasant nor malicious. It was one of amusement and annoyance that barely reached his eyes.

"Sassy. He surely is a magnet for the type," the man drawled, sizing her up with his eyes.

"Who is?" She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"Take your seat." He pointed his umbrella at the chair that made her feel uncomfortable.

"No thanks," she said, familiar with the tactic of standing while an opponent sat in order to convey dominance.

He glanced at her wand and then returned his eyes to her face. "I know your condition leads you to believe you're in danger at all times, but there would be no need of that, Ms. Granger."

Hermione resisted punching him in the face and maintained her stance, ready to send a spell at his face if situation called for it.

"There isn't much need or use for your sword, but here we are anyway. Now, would you hurry and explain to me what the hell is going on before I hex you into the next century?"

"I've brought you here to inform you that you will soon be leaving Baker Street. I will deal with Sherlock. Aurors, especially those as prominent as you, should be employed where you expertise would be required, not tailing a nosy muggle."

"You're Sherlock's brother, aren't you? Mycroft Holmes?" she asked, suddenly recalling the pictures in Sherlock's case file. There was no doubt. Nobody else could have such a remarkably permanent look of distaste on their face.

"Well spotted, Auror," he congratulated sarcastically, bring his hands together to clap twice slowly. His actions were a mockery of the speed of her thought processes.

She ignored the insult she was unaccustomed to and spoke, "To answer your demand that I leave, Mr. Holmes. No, I won't. It is not under your jurisdiction to make such commands."

"Who does have jurisdiction? The obliviating team at the Auror headquarters? My dear brother is slightly above average in intelligence, but I assure you he wouldn't discover the existence of your society. It'll be a waste of your time and energy to erase his memories."

It was her turn to mock him now, she realized with joy. She laughed softly, careful to not overdo it. "I take it you use your devices meant for national security to spy on your little brother. I have to warn you that besides being a _disgusting_ waste of taxpayer money, it is also completely useless. If you were doing a decent job of it, you would know that his memory has been tampered with before. But, that's not why I'm here."

The handle of Hermione's wand glowed red suddenly, visibly startling Mycroft before he composed himself in less than a second. She smirked knowingly as she had predicted this behavior from the young Holmes even though she could decipher nothing about the older one who stood in front of her.

"Your brother is attempting to break into my flat as we speak. He'd get suspicious if he can't get in," she said before muttering a few spells that temporarily removed the wards on her lock. In seconds, her wards informed her that someone had entered.

"And you're here because?"

"Mister Holmes, I'm not in liberty to discuss cases we handle at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with the British Government. I can only assure you that I'm working in the best interests of the young Mister Holmes."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I'm not asking you to. It's a choice that doesn't affect me," she said, taking a few steps closer to him. "You're an expert at making people pieces on your chessboard, but remember that I would know if you so much as _think_ of playing God with my life. You're smart enough to know when you don't have the upper hand."

She looked up at him, her neck hurting slightly due to the reduced distance between them and his towering height. His eyes were still void of all emotion, making him unreadable. It was fascinating, a man who has complete control over his display of emotion was the sibling of a man who had mode emotions that she could count.

Feeling defeated by his unreadable eyes, but quite victorious at not crumbling under his expert manipulation, she raised her wand and turned in her place before leaving Mycroft all alone in the warehouse.

"Goodbye, Mister Holmes."


	7. Chapter 6

_Here's chapter 6, finally! I uploaded it like an hour ago, but I had to delete it because this website messed up my formatting and had 1k words worth of html codes. So, I had to delete it and re-upload the chapter. Thanks for the reviews and hope you like the chapter!_

 **Chapter 6**

Sherlock Holmes sat with his legs folded on his green chair as he read his compilation of the most baffling locked room mysteries of the world. He solved a few on his own as soon as he read them, spotting details that didn't catch the eyes of amateurs who called themselves the police. They were all equally incompetent despite the country they were from. He couldn't apply any of those solutions to the case he was handling, unfortunately.

His friend, the good doctor, had retired to his room upstairs for a nap after he accompanied Sherlock to the scene of a triple homicide last night. He got tired easily and didn't even join Sherlock for dinner. The only reason he even had dinner was because he had almost completely solved the case and knew that digestion wouldn't affect the simple but long last step. His shift wasn't until twelve noon and Sherlock presumed he could drag him away for the disappearance case he'd found in their new neighbor.

His thoughts were interrupted by said neighbor's footsteps up the stairs. With her speed, one might say she was in a hurry, but there was no need for hurry in picking up her things from their shared refrigerator, the only reason she ever came up apart from chatting with John. One could argue that she could've forgotten an ingredient before cooking and was being quick so that whatever she had on the pot didn't burn while she was away to fetch the ingredient. But, she was methodical and wouldn't start off before she had everything with her. She was either angry or desperate. To his knowledge, he hadn't done anything yet to piss her off and there was no activity downstairs to indicate anger caused by someone or something else. So, desperation. Judging by her personality, the only thing that could make her so desperate was curiosity.

Once she entered the room, Sherlock was sure about what'd happened. It was both curiosity and anger, then. It was weird. He was quite busy at the time he presumed she left, but he should've heard her when she came back. He was right there. She was stealthy, likely owed to years of habituation.

"What did my wonderful brother want?" he asked and internally jumped up and down in joy when he saw the shock in her face.

"How did you even know?"

"The presence of my brother drains all joy, hopes and dreams of those around him and frankly, you look like shit."

"Wow, thanks! But, how, really?"

"You smell like a luxurious car that you can't afford even with your inheritance. None of your few friends seem to own one either." He checked for her reaction to his mention of her inheritance, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, so he continued.

"And it has been approximately three days since I caught that git's abnormally long nose in my business," he said before turning to the whiteboard that hung above his couch. It said, in his messy handwriting, 'It has been [3] days since Mycroft meddled', with the number in a box.

He hauled himself off the furniture and climbed over the coffee table and then the couch to erase the number and replace it with a zero. Once done, he flung the marker over his shoulder and it landed where John insisted was the right place for stationery.

"Did he offer you money to spy on him?" said John's groggy voice as he entered the living room in his clothes from last night out of which he hadn't bothered to change.

"No, he didn't…" she drawled, confused by his question.

"He did that when he took me to an abandoned warehouse."

"I was also taken to an abandoned warehouse," she offered while she furrowed her eyebrows and leaned forward eagerly for him to share his experiences.

"What's his deal?"

"Oh, don't open that door." He shook his head in horror and poured himself a glass of water.

"Now, now. Have your Mycroft-Harassed-Me support group at another occasion," he waved his hand in dismissal, "We have things to do."

"We do?" John asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Sherlock walked to their coat stand and pulled off his companion's and threw it at him in an uncivil manner as an answer.

"I just got out of bed," he argued feebly. He desperately wanted to join Sherlock, but was in a dilemma in choosing between the adrenaline rush he so wanted and studying.

Sherlock tilted his head as though to ask what the point was. They had a case and John was more concerned with his morning routine. "Five minutes," he spat before putting on his own coat.

Once John left to get ready, Hermione began shuffling away.

"Oh, you look fine! Don't go away to primp and preen like John."

"I'm just going to go through my books, actually. I have classes tomorrow and I'm completely unprepared." _Liar. She went through the books as soon as she bought them._

"You're coming with us, actually," he revealed, tying his scarf around his neck. "It's your case."

"Oh, I- I don't think I should." She shook her head frantically and took a step back.

 _Fear_

"Nonsense. You're the closest family of both the victims. Your presence won't be completely useless,"

"You and John should go first, I'll join you later."

Sherlock wanted to argue, but she left quickly without making any eye contact with him. She was either a suspect or human emotions were more irrational that he originally believed. Either way, he had to take her to the scene somehow. When he left with John, he heard the sound of pen against paper through her door. Her pace was quick and sure, so he deduced that she had no intention to join them. Having no desire to interrupt her quest for knowledge on human psychology (he saw her meticulous and quite elaborate notes when he entered her apartment just before she'd arrived) however useless it was.

After a ride that lasted twenty three minutes and eleven seconds (just a minute and three seconds longer than his calculation) and included a minor accident that delayed them, Sherlock and the doctor found themselves in front of the officially dead Grangers' house. John suggested they wait until their flatmate arrived with the key to her property. He ignored the man and picked the lock instead. He wasn't sure when she'd come and it would be a crime to wait idly until she did.

It was an ordinary family home with photographs, mostly of a younger Ms. Granger in the different stages of life until she turned sixteen. The house was too clean for one that hadn't been lived in for years. She'd been here to clean the house, so emotion clearly wasn't a problem. She was hiding something. ' _Or she hired someone to do the cleaning for her' John spoke in his mind again._

He sighed, knowing even imaginary John had a point. She didn't bother to get herself good sofas, so why would she spend money on keeping a house she didn't live in, so impeccable. But again, why was she in Baker Street instead of the beautiful house that was now legally hers? This place was even closer to her university. Sentiment, probably. People did irrational things when driven by sentiments. No, still fishy. She had come to accept their death, so moving back in shouldn't be painful anymore.

There was a piano that hadn't been taken care of, but played quite recently. He had deduced that right, then. She played the piano frequently, but not this particular instrument. He could eliminate that from the list of deductions he'd made that she revealed to be defective. She had one in her previous apartment she shared with her ex-lover and laid her fingers on this one as she missed the routine.

Nothing had moved even a centimeter out of place, he concluded, as he juxtaposed the pictures from the case file with the corresponding locations in the house. Someone had been cleaning, but was careful to not disturb anything. Someone _cared. None of Richard or Helen Granger's families could've done it. Helen's only sibling Annalise lived in France and their parents were both dead. Richard was an only child just like his daughter and his parents were in nursing homes, too weak from afflictions unique to the old to clean themselves let alone a house this big._

After turning the house upside-down once and then twice, he went downstairs to the home library and found John going through dental books and journals.

Frantic footsteps preceded Hermione's angry voice. He blocked it out, of course. She went on about him breaking into her house and John added fuel to the fire by placing the sole blame on him despite following him with no protest. He was too frightened by her fury.

Sherlock had a penchant for attracting tiny, angry people into his life.

The corner of his lips quirked up slightly at that.

"Not dead," he said, halting her rant. John closed the bulky book in his hand that he'd stopped reading as soon as Granger had arrived.

"I'm sorry, what?" She heard him, he knew when he spotted her coffee brown eyes widened in shock. She just couldn't believe it. It was shock, unaccompanied by fear. So, not the perpetrator.

"Your parents, Hermione Granger. They're not dead." He yawned deliberately to show his boredom. The doctor elbowed him for his behavior and Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

She opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish before stammering out a few words. "Really? How are- where are they? Wait, you're kidding!"

"I don't _kid," he spat, walking out of the room and just as he'd wanted, John and the wonderful woman who'd handed him a level 7 case, followed him like ducklings followed their mother. This was wonderful, he hadn't had a seven in such a long time. He stopped in the office that was illuminated by just the old computer as the blinds were closed._

"That was password protected, nobody could crack it!" she yelped and pushed past John to take a glimpse of the screen.

"Precisely why the morons got nowhere with the case."

"Australia," she said in disbelief even though the contents of the screen were perfectly clear and created no doubt in him. Her bottom lip was trembling and she bit down on it just like she did the other day. The screen illuminated her face and made the freckles on her olive skin more prominent. A few stubborn ringlets had escaped her hairdo (he didn't know whether that was intentional or deliberate) and lightly graced her cheeks.

"Brilliant, you aren't as dim witted as Scotland Yard!" He bellowed quite loudly, angered by his train of thoughts. His observation of her hair and freckles were completely unnecessary and took up valuable space in the limited hard drive that was his brain.

"Sherlock!" admonished John as he guided her to the sofa in the room and took a seat next to the visibly shaking woman who only tensed more at John's touches that were intended to comfort her.

"Dr and Dr. Granger used the Yahoo search engine which was popular before Google, to research Australia," he explained to divert the attention from his inappropriate behavior to the case at hand.

"They might've wanted a vacation," John offered stupidly.

"You would be right if their searches included hotel prices. But, they've looked up property values of flats and clinics. It's all one bedroom flats, so they had no intention to accommodate their daughter who was away at boarding school."

"They wouldn't abandon me, that's not like them," she claimed, looking and sounding less pathetic than she did a few seconds back. She'd composed herself quickly and with John's help, if her comfort under the touch of his hands was any indication.

"You would be surprised by the things you'd find about the people close to you if you took a step back and analysed the data about them that you discarded because they're anxiety inducing."

"I know them. They wouldn't," she insisted, completely missing the point. Well, even the smart ones among the ordinary were too adversely affected by emotion to see reason.

"Or would they?"

"I should call Detective Friedman," she whispered to herself and pushed herself off the seat and John's comfort, and pulled her phone out of her brown sling bag.

She'd dialed only three digits before he interrupted her. "If you really want your parents found, you wouldn't let that poor excuse of a detective back into the case."

"He wasn't bad, he tried."

"Not hard enough. His report," he said, pausing to pick up the file from the desk where he'd left it, "is _disgustingly inadequate. A television crime show could've done a better job. He had clicked two useless pictures in high definition and closed the case when he couldn't even crack the password of an ancient computer when he had tech experts paid for the purpose. The password was 19091979."_

"That's-"

"Ordinary, quite like your parents." When he noticed her look offended, he rolled his eyes and said, "Don't do that, almost everyone is."

"You saw the photo and looked for my birth certificate," she said in awe as she took notice of the photo of her as a new born baby in the arms of her tired yet glowing mother who was in the embrace of her equally delighted father. She stared at the picture for a second too long, looking away only when he spoke up.

"With your permission, I'll take the files concerning their financial records- personal and business for my scrutiny. We'll follow the money and see where it goes."

John's pager went off, much to Sherlock's chagrin. He loved his company on cases. It was much better than bouncing his ideas off a fucking skull. People used to look at him, repulsed. Now that he had John, people didn't label him a lunatic immediately. No, that happened only when he opened his mouth.

"There was an accident and they need extra hands. I have to go."

With that, the good doctor was gone. Together, Sherlock and Granger collected physical files and copied digital ones to a CD because the old thing wouldn't read his memory stick. When she was busy handling the old computer, he wandered off into her old bedroom to satisfy his need to right the wrong inferences he'd made about her. She said that the data he'd collected were adequate, but his conclusions were wrong. Maybe he'd be able to gather better data, which when combined with the ones he'd originally gathered would lead him to different conclusions.

Everything seemed normal at first glance, but Sherlock being Sherlock noticed things quickly. At first glance, she looked happy in the picture framed above her, but he gleaned from her eyes that she wasn't. The way she touched her neck showed her discomfort in being among the kids who stood by her. In her hands was a thick collection of certificates and under her feet stood four trophies. Her collection was comparatively broader than that of her peers. She looked lonely.

In the picture by her bedside, however, she looked more cheerful. She looked to be about thirteen or fourteen and stood in between the boys who helped her move in. Her eyes were brighter than they were now and she looked to be enjoying her life. There were no signs of scars on her arms. Whatever happened to cause her PTSD and self-harming was after this picture was taken. And it definitely wasn't caused by her parents. The mention of the missing Grangers had a negative effect on her not because she was haunted by how they hurt her, but because she grieved them despite it being over seven years since they went missing. That was a long time to grieve, but maybe that was how it worked for normal people. Even he still thought about Redbeard at times.

The closet door was open just a smidge and when he opened it wider, he couldn't believe his luck. There was a cardboard box with books and a diary she'd written. It would surely have all the information he wanted. A smug grin took over his face as he fantasized about the day he would deduce her to a t and wipe off that smirk she had on her face when she told him he was wrong.

His air castle came crumbling down when his phone rang in his coat pocket. He stuffed the diary in his coat, kicked the box back inside and left the room at once in fear of being caught snooping around. He'd already heard enough from her for the day for breaking and entering.

"Tell me it's a murder," he answered the call.

"No. Missing woman," replied Lestrade.

There seemed to be an abundance of those.

"Not interested," he snapped and before he could hang up, he heard the DI basically beg him for his input in the case. That definitely boosted his ego. As he descended the stairs discreetly, he agreed to the poor man's request and asked him to message him the address.

"Got anything else?" asked Hermione from the entrance to the office. She had a few files in hand and had shut down the computer (or it had finally given up and ended its own miserable life), judging by the darkness in the office. She also had five CDs on the pile of files.

 _Yes, I did!_

"Not really," he said just as his phone vibrated in his coat along with a _ding._

"If this is all that we have, I'll head to Baker Street. Get started on these files."

"No," he said before he understood the reasoning behind his words. His mind indeed was faster than he could keep up with, sometimes.

She raised her eyebrow in question, prompting him to speak.

"I just got a call from Scotland Yard and you're coming because John is not available." Sherlock had on a poker face, the face he usually displayed to the world, and waited for Hermione Granger's response eagerly. If she jumped up excitedly and took up his offer, he would be a step ahead in discovering who she really was.

"No, actually. It's nice of you to offer and I'm assuming this is a friendly gesture because you only take John out on cases. I shouldn't be distracted from this," she nodded to the files she had, "but thank you anyway for offering."

The alarming width of Sherlock's false smile dropped instantaneously. If she were here to gain information regarding the Petros case (something of 'importance' that he'd agreed to work for Mycroft if he couldn't find a good case for three whole days), she would've tagged along with him eagerly. She wasn't spying on him, then. Or maybe she was, but for a different reason. He didn't know what reason exactly, but he was determined to find out.

"We could take a cab together, you could get off at Baker Street. It's on the way to the crime scene, actually." It wasn't. Or it might've been. He hadn't even checked the address Gary had texted him, yet. She was going to refuse. Maybe she carried out her dubious activities in this house because he found nothing in her current Baker Street flat when he was _so sure he would._

"I'm going to stay here for a while, actually. Compose myself."

"Right," he replied before 'leaving'. He'd forgotten to factor in human emotions in his plans. She genuinely looked shaken by the day, possibly due to the revelations about her parents, but he didn't really spot it while said information was revealed.

It wasn't difficult for the Consulting Detective to find a spot for him to stake out and keep a watch on the curious Ms. Granger. What proved hard was to watch her annoying display of emotions in the living room. She poured in wine and poured out tears. He was glad he wasn't forced to be around her for that. If he was, he would've had to offer some kind words to keep her from throwing her off the case for being insensitive or something equally tedious.

The task proved boring and he wanted to leave, but Hermione had changed positions and he was sure he'd get caught in her bushes like a fucking creep if he risked getting out of hiding and left. So, he begrudgingly requested the pictures of the crime scene from Lestrade who replied quick enough to further prove his desperation. Sherlock was desperate too, but only due to his boredom.

He'd just use the texting technique John had used on all his previous love interests and send a delayed reply. John would wait by his handset all day long for texts from whichever woman he'd picked as flavor of the month, but when he finally received the message he clearly wanted, he would wait a while for a specific interval of time before he replied. Sherlock flinched at the thought of that. Courting was a nasty game and he was glad he could rely on himself to take care of his needs.

He barely needed five minutes and seven questions to solve the case. The solution was that the woman suspected to be missing was actually not missing. She was dead and her body stashed inside a secret basement in the house. Nobody knew about said basement because the man who built it was the husband who was an engineer. A quick search on the internet could sometimes do wonders.

Except with Hermione Granger, of course.

He took a quick look and cursed internally for losing track of her. She was on the phone currently, having a conversation he couldn't make out clearly. His lip-reading skills were still under development and the only words he could say he caught for sure were:

1\. Harry (She was speaking to that friend of hers with the unusual scar, of course)

2\. Minister (Which one?)

3\. Body (Dead? Or mass index? Or odor? Temperature? _Oh,_ _let it be the first one! Fingers crossed!_ )

With her mobile phone still held to her ear, she took off hurriedly without taking her files or putting back her bottle of wine. Whatever she heard was so pressing, she ignored her habit of putting things back in their place.

He followed her discreetly while she walked with purpose, occasionally wiping a tear. She was too emotional to notice a fully grown man tailing her. Her pace quickened as listened to the person on the other line, not saying anything revealing, just different ways of acknowledgement like 'okay' and 'hmm'. Gradually, she stopped crying and at the entrance of an alley. She tucked her phone in the pocket of her jeans and walked in determinedly, treating the alleyway as a destination rather than a path.

Sherlock moved his coat out of the way and tucked his hands in his pant pockets. He kept his pace steady to keep an optimal distance between himself and Hermione so that she wasn't alerted to his presence. This, he realized, was no longer in his control when he arrived at the alley. According to his calculations, she must be no farther than 22 meters away from him, but was nowhere to be found. She should've still been in the extremely long alley. It was impossible for anyone to walk the whole length in 12 seconds.

The building on the left had been abandoned for years, to his knowledge, and the windows had bars on them. The building to the right had windows, but they were far too high for her to climb into. Someone could've aided it with a rope, but that was stretching it. There were no marks on the walls to prove his theory, but it was all that he had left and he felt that it must be the truth, no matter how improbable.

Just as he was about to begin a second round of checks, his phone vibrated against his thigh. It was Lestrade again. He tried to ignore it, but the man was relentless. Annoyed by the noise and slightly curious, Sherlock attended the call.

"You can't call me every time you're incapable of reading long words, Detective Inspector," he mocked, a smug smile on his face. Just a few weeks ago, he was getting kicked out of Scotland Yard repeatedly. Now, they couldn't stop hounding him with boring cases.

"I wish it were a simple problem, Sherlock. But, all the seven bodies from the locked room mysteries are missing from Bart's."

It was easy to choose between disappearing neighbors and disappearing dead bodies.


	8. Chapter 7

_Here's chapter seven, finally! I hit some plotholes and had to fix them before posting this chapter. So, sorry for the delay and thanks to the guest reviewer on the previous chapter. I hope to hear more from you guys!_

 **Chapter-7**

"The Killing Curse, obviously," said Harry flippantly but Hermione slowly shook her head in denial without taking her eyes off the body on the table or moving from her crouched position. It was slightly disturbing to see the corpse without its eyes, but that stopped bothering her when she asked for all seven bodied to be turned to lay face down. Damn Sherlock for taking them out for his own investigation. Damn that girl Hooper for giving in to him.

She was jealous of the man who existed outside the boundaries of bureaucracy. He didn't have to jump through hoops on fire before he got a piece of evidence. She had to beg and bargain before she could finally have access to corpses. If she'd been allowed access earlier, she probably could've prevented a few of them from becoming corpses.

"The killing curse leaves behind no residue of its work," she said thoughtfully before tracing her index and middle finger over the back of the man's head with her eyes closed. Once she got what she wanted, she paused and opened her eyes. She adjusted her position to stand upright and looked up to her friend and partner in a silent signal to come closer. Harry took the cue and placed his fingers right where she did.

He then looked up to a Hermione who was fighting herself rather poorly in hiding her 'I told you so' smile. Her arms were folded over her chest and she asked Harry, "You feel that?" even though she knew from his expressions that he did indeed feel _that_.

"What was that?" He asked, straightening out and following her as she began walking towards the next corpse in the room. Without being prompted, he examined the other six for the same marker and found that all of them fit the criteria. All of them, according to Harry's face, showed a faint vibration at exactly the same spot.

"Merlin knows! But it is the work of a spell that I've never heard of, before."

"Could be a Potion."

"No, it wasn't," she dismissed with a snort. "We discovered the core types of the wands used on them, remember?"

"They could've been made to drink a potion at wand point."

"No, what's wrong with you, today? First of all, the autopsy doesn't show any potion-like fluid in the victims' systems. I stole it from Dr. Hooper. Besides, if I was muggle and you pointed a _stick_ at me and demanded that I drink something, I would laugh in your face and walk away, not take it as a threat."

"Spell it is, then," he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I should look into those eyes Nosy Holmes stole," she spat, bitterly. God, she hated him.

"What? You think he's onto something? He's muggle. He couldn't possibly-"

"You've never seen him work, Harry. He has a knack for noticing things that slip through others' filters. He took those eyeballs for a reason and there's a good chance it might lead us somewhere."

Parvati Patil who was now a healer at St. Mungo's came in to relieve them of the dead bodies. She hid while Harry and Parvati spoke to the Muggle Relations department officials about the right time and method to put back the bodies from where they came, without raising much suspicion. She had suggested that they replace the corpses with duplicates, but of course, nobody listened.

Once they were done, she came out of her hiding and then immediately wished that she hadn't when Harry began interrogating her.

"What's wrong, 'Mione?" he asked as they ate the mediocre cafeteria food he'd brought for her from the DMLE for nostalgia's sake. It tasted like shit, but it reminded her of the days the three of them worked together and gorged it after a particularly trying mission. All seats were full, so they slowly walked together with no destination in mind.

"It has too much mustard for one," she said with a humorless chuckle before taking a rather large bite of the sandwich. A mouthful of food might earn her some time to conjure up a lie.

Harry had his hands in the pocket of his jeans, his work robes draped carelessly over his shoulder. "You can't dodge the topic forever. You haven't been to the burrow for God knows how long. Molly is worried sick and Arthur has turned to _me_ for expertise on the muggle world- expertise that I lack." She giggled at that, annoying him further. Arthur's curiosity was endearing, but it could be a bit too much sometimes. "And today you answer the phone sobbing. Ginny is ready to bat-bogey hex the answer out of you, by the way."

At the end of his emotional speech, she still had unchewed disgustingly soggy sandwich in her mouth. If she finished eating, she'd have to answer him and she had no excuse as to why she was crying. She had been pretending quite well that she was already over the whole debacle with her parents.

"Is it Ron?" he asked, unable to bear the awkward silence. This prompted laughter so intense, she almost choked on her food. She muffled her laughter and covered her mouth as she leaned back on the nearest wall for support. She calmed herself for a few seconds, enough to swallow her food and then shook her head at him with an absurd grin on her face.

He stopped to stare at her, angry at her first for making a joke out of the serious conversation, but there was a slight curve of his lips that indicated he realized the absurdity of his words. "It wasn't that funny," he defended, knowing full well that his suggestion was completely off the mark.

"It's my parents," she confessed.

"Are they okay?" he asked, panic immediately settling over his face. His shoulder stiffened and his muscles clenched. The stupid boy still had the tendency to blame himself for everything that happened to those who fought alongside him.

"Yeah, yeah, they're fine. Nothing bad, really. It's just- It has been quite long since I saw them and I really miss them. I desperately want to get a portkey licensed and- fuck, sorry! I didn't mean to," she apologized frantically as she realized who she was talking to. It was Harry who had it worse, not her. The last time she met Ginny, she told her how her husband almost died again on a mission. Hermione had it easy in comparison.

"Okay, I don't mean to brag or rub it in your face but I'm losing the contest for the worst life ever. But, that's not the point. Those of us in the war- we barely have anyone left to talk to and we really need talking. So, no matter how better you think your situation is in comparison to mine, you'll come to me, alright?"

"Right," she said convincingly even though it was the last thing she'd do.

"You're coming to the Burrow for dinner _tonight_. No excuses. If you are not there by six, I will send the love of my life and you know she won't be nice."

"Fiiine," she whined, already going through excuses in her mind to explain her disappearance into an alleyway to Sherlock fucking Holmes who had a never-ending supply of noses to stick into others' business.

With that, she departed after multiple promises to show up tonight instead of backing out of their plans in the last minute like she had done a few times after her break up with Ron. She loved visiting the Weasleys but reduced the frequency of her visits drastically after she dumped him rather suddenly. Molly was initially disappointed, but came to terms with it and even accepted her decision. But, there was lingering awkwardness. Also, she felt like she was encroaching on Ron's space. When couples split up, they have an unspoken agreement diving up common places and friends among themselves and she thought it would be stupid of her to think she could have the Weasleys as much as she did when she was only his friend or girlfriend. It was his home, his family and he deserved to be there more than she did.

 _"_ _My family is your family too, 'Mione,"_ Ron's loving voice presented itself in her mind and she hurriedly pushed I back, but it was too late. Soon enough, her emotions were triggered and she found herself in the fetal position on her bed.

She didn't realize until then that she was back at Baker Street. The rational part of her stopped all mental processes at once to rewind through her memory of the day. Her journey from St. Mungo's back to Baker Street played back like a movie and she calmed only when she made sure after the review that she hadn't splinched herself in disapparition or worse, carelessly exposed magic to a muggle. She was impressed with herself, but also concerned about her mental health. With the bitter realization that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it, she began to rest once again.

There were frustrated footsteps thudding above her and they belonged to Sherlock, no doubt. She discerned that the Muggle Relations department had put the bodies back and he was dying trying to figure out what the fuck happened. He obviously didn't buy whatever flimsy story they'd created if they even bothered with an explanation. She suspected that they just confounded Scotland Yard into not caring about it. If it were any other day, she would've gone by to check what'd exactly gone down, but now she let him drive himself crazy with questions. She felt a perverse sort of joy in his suffering after what he'd put her through that day.

Begrudgingly and slightly terrified of the prospect of Ginny actually showing up to drag her away, she showered and changed into a casual t-shirt dress and took off to the nearest disapparition alley before bidding goodbye to her kind landlady. She walked uncomfortably as her wand was tucked in the band of her bra as her purse was too small to hold anything bigger than her phone and money. Moody's words of warning about putting your wand in unsafe positions rang in her ear, but she kept walking determinedly to her destination. Once there, she pulled it out and breathed a sigh of relief before disapparating.

After the familiar uncomfortable feelings that pulled at her body like she was play doh, she was outside the Burrow. The second she landed on her feet, she heard the hustle and bustle inside. They were joking and laughing like they always did. Recovering from losing a member was a painful process for them, but the arrival of new ones helped them heal.

"Hemyoneee!" squealed an excited little voice as it came closer and launched itself at her. The owner of the voice had grown tremendously since she'd last seen him. She picked him up like she always did and gave him a hundred kisses as she walked further inside the house.

Teddy launched into stories his muggle primary school, about his friends and teachers and even a classmate whom he thought looked like a Cornish pixie. She responded to him kindly, gasping here and there for dramatic effect. In his enthusiasm, his brown hair turned pink like his mother and his eyes looked just like Professor Lupin's when he taught his favorite topics.

"Look who's finally here!" said George as he stopped running inside the house at the sight of her. He was quickly caught by a panting Victoire who giggled sweetly with the victory of having caught her uncle.

"I was about to use some of that Ministry guilt and demand a special team of Aurors to investigate your disappearance when you stopped visiting me at the shop."

"I was visiting Ronald, not you."

Teddy, bored by the grown-up conversation and spotting his best friend Victorie, wiggled off her hip and went to play some new kids' game she'd never heard of before. She rolled her eyes at George who placed a hand over his heart and pretended to be hurt by her words.

"I came for the discount on your products, actually," she said, playing along with his ridiculous act.

"You visited me at my shop for years and wooed me and now you say it was all a ruse to seduce me into discounts!" he gasped and wiped off invisible tears. She never should've introduced him to soap operas.

"Dinner's ready! Hope you boys arranged the table," came Molly's voice from the kitchen.

"Yes Mom, totally!" bellowed George before running to the backyard where they now had big family dinners as it was impossible to fit the ever-growing family in the dining room. Most of them, except for Ron and Charlie were married, essentially doubling the number of members. And there were also kids- Teddy, Victoire, Molly, Dominique, and the brand new baby Fred who was taking turns on his parents' shoulders.

Harry, Ron, and George quickly set the table for dinner before they could be caught in the act by Molly. They sat like a big noisy family around the table and for a second, Hermione regretted not coming by more frequently, but then she glanced at Ron who sat by her awkwardly and looked up at her a few times to talk but opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish a few times before looking back down at his plate. They didn't have to sit by each other anymore, but they were determined to pretend in front of everyone that things would be normal despite their break up. What they didn't realize was that things had to get worse before they got better again.

"So, um. How's the shop?" she asked him awkwardly as she caught him staring yet another time. He looked ashamed for a second for being caught but quickly answered her.

"It's cool, yeah," he nodded, pushing around food on his plate with his fork.

"Nice," she said, already regretting initiating the conversation.

"How's your psychology thing?"

"It's going quite well actually."

"So, why are you doing the same thing again?"

"I'm not, Ron. What I did before was my bachelor's and this is my master's degree. I can do my Ph.D. after this, actually."

"Cool. Cool, cool," he said, stuffing his face with food to end the awkwardness and Hermione had never been more thankful for his weird eating habits.

"Hermione, dear. How is it going with your mind studies? What is it called, I forget…" trailed Mr. Weasley.

"It's going great, Arthur. I'll be done in two years and then I can open my own practice. I have already sent my papers through to St. Mungo's to consider a mental health wing that does more than wipe off people's memories and give dreamless sleep potions," she said, happy to talk about anything other than her break up with the man's son.

"How does this work, then? How do you rid people of their bad memories?"

"Getting rid of bad memories is not the right way to cope up with them. It is easier, yes. But the obliviation services offered by St. Mungo's is very expensive, so people try to erase their memories at home or from unlicensed obliviators."

"My seniors tell me that the botched obliviation cases have gone up thirteen times since the war and most of them are irreversible. It's worse than their traumatic memories, I tell you," said Audrey who was a training healer at the institution they were talking about.

"Exactly," she gestured her hand towards her in agreement.

"Therapists are trained to help people cope with their problems in a healthy manner. It takes more time than a wand to your head, but at least it won't leave your mind completely messed up," she concluded.

"The shop next to ours is vacating, you could turn it into an office," George suggested, earning a little gasp from Ronald. He clearly didn't want to see her every day around his place of work again. Nobody would want to see the woman who dumped them when they proposed bloody marriage. She was surprised he even forgave her.

Just as they began savoring the Treacle tart Molly made so wonderfully, Pigwidgeon came flying and took his position right on Harry's plate, getting his favorite dessert all over its feet, and dropped the letter in front of him. It was clearly a letter from the ministry, an emergency one at that. The parchment came from Ministry issued notepads given to Aurors. Even Hermione got one after her training was done. The paper was folded in a Hurry with no regard for alignment. The impression of the words on the back of the parchment told her that it was The Minister's handwriting. If it wasn't a pressing issue, he would've gone back to his office for his own stationery.

It was about _the_ case.

All color drained from Hermione's face at the thought of another murder. What if she'd been wrong about the next potential victims? Or worse, what if it was Sherlock? Dead because of her negligence. No, no, that was impossible. There was a pattern. They killed muggles only when inside their homes and there was no way in hell they could enter the building with the kind of wards she put up. Any disturbances would've alerted Hermione immediately.

She wondered how Harry would communicate the message to her discreetly as none of the people at the table knew she was still an Auror or that she was undercover. She trusted everyone at the table to keep her secrets, of course, but it was just easier this way.

He leaned forward and turned sideways and Ginny reclined to grant him an unobstructed view of Hermione. "Do you have plans after this? Robert has some runes he needs to be translated immediately for a case and he's begged me to ask you to come by," Harry lied, waving the note in front of him and fed the poor bird some dessert before sending him away.

"Well, that asshole could just owl the runes to you," she said, knowing full well that if she agreed to help her annoying co-worker, who asked her out multiple times, with no resistance whatsoever, Ginny would be suspicious.

"The runes are engraved on a rock that requires at least ten people to move. He's at the scene and ready to grant you access officially. law-breaking," he assured, playing along with his friend. She really hoped Ginny bought the act. She was rightfully angry about how she had to keep working as an Auror against her wishes to help capture Death Eaters. She'd confided in Ginny about wanting to do more research and they'd drunkenly talked shit about how amoral the ministry had to be to deny someone who lost so much in the war of a peaceful life.

"I don't know, Harry," she trailed, wondering if she'd gone too far with the acting. If she so much as glanced in Ginny's direction to check her reactions, she might find out. Or not. Fuck! This was stressful.

"If it makes any difference, I'll come along and make sure he doesn't stray from work talk." That seemed a perfectly reasonable offer, so the duo left behind their large, disappointed family behind and to the DMLE where they proceeded to use the same ruse to give Hermione entrance- except they interchanged Robert's name with Kingsley's.

To her surprise, what Kingsley needed them for wasn't far from their lie. The rule following eleven year old in her jumped up and down in joy at the realization that she hadn't technically lied to anyone about why she was at the Ministry.

The Minister waited at what used to be her desk before she "resigned" her job. Whoever had occupied the place after her had transformed the place from a neatly organized and accessible desk to a pile of things arranged to look like an overflowing landfill. If she so much as breathed out too harshly near it, the pile would be disturbed enough to collapse onto the floor.

"Where exactly was it found?" Harry asked as Hermione pulled out a chair in front of the cleanest desk in the office.

"The journalist, Julia Mendez's kitchen," Kingsley said, rocking on her old chair back and forth, nervously. He was probably anxious about her being spotted in the DMLE and ruining their cover. Nobody except the receptionist knew and Hermione saw Harry cast a Muffliato when they entered. So, they weren't at risk of being overheard. As for the rest of the Aurors, they were at the new pub across the street to celebrate Dolan's birthday.

"Who found it?" Harry continued his inquiry, leaning against a desk.

"Geoffrey Philips and Beatrice Rosier. She'd gone back in search of an engagement ring she'd had in her robe pocket to give her girlfriend, but lost it somewhere. She last saw it when she apparently took it out to _admire_ it at the crime scene." Kingsley continued speaking and Harry asked questions and provided suggestions in between, but the conversation grew hazier as her mind focused on just one stimulus- the runes, and filtered out the others.

At the end of five minutes, she had only translated one sentence. It might seem slow to those not familiar with runes, but it was the normal speed for the task. Runes could not be translated in a straight forward manner and required some interpretations on the part of the translator.

So far, the sentence she'd translated made no sense. She glanced at what she'd written down so far and almost laughed. Why would anyone use ancient runes to write something as unimportant as _this_?

 _'_ _Buy sure grams weight butter 238.0289 and sugar 192.217_.' was the direct translation. It wasn't uncommon of people to buy things in such extremely specific quantity in the Wizarding World. Ancient recipes passed down in families through generations demanded that they do so. Those at the shops were experts as measuring spells due to practice and were able to perform them with more accuracy than common witches and wizards whose spells were only strong enough to yield approximate measures.

Maybe they'd written it down in runes to keep the content more secretive. Runes weren't exclusive to the family, the subject was taught as 'Ancient Runes' at Hogwarts. But, only the basics were taught. It was out of her own interest and boredom (which was abundant after the war) that she'd acquired further knowledge in the subject. But, if they wanted to protect the content, they wouldn't have written down the recipe on a different parchment. Maybe they wanted to share the recipe with someone, but the recipient was obviously not trustworthy. If they were, the original parchment would've been shared. The owner was right in not doing so as the person was clearly not responsible enough to keep a piece of paper safe. Why share it, then? Were they coerced to? Would the answer to that even aid in discovering the murderer?

No. The parchment wasn't dropped there at the time of the murder. Sherlock had been to all the seven crime scenes and _nothing_ evaded the man's senses. It must've been left there after the murder, she was sure.

"I need to speak to Philips and Rosier, immediately," she said, interrupting the conversation between the men.

"They just finished their shifts, actually. I interrogated them personally and can provide you the information you need," said Kingsley.

"What exactly did they tell you?" she asked, needing absolutely all that she could get.

She _finally_ had something!


End file.
